


The Art of Love and Cooking

by sevenswells



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Food Porn, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, flangst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells/pseuds/sevenswells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty-something Puck has become a chef specialized in traditional French cuisine, and he's hired for a two-week job as a caterer for a gay wedding in Connecticut. The only problem is that one of his clients is a boy he used to bully in high school, and that boy hasn't forgiven anything. But, who knows? Two weeks might be enough to erase mistakes from the past... and, maybe, snatch the bride at the altar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Échauder

  
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tweed-New Haven Airport. Local time is 11:20 and the temperature is 81 degrees Farenheit.

On behalf of US Airways and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day."

About fucking time. Puck groaned deep in his throat as he mechanically rubbed at his eyelids with the heels of his hands, and grimaced. He tried to move his pasty tongue just to see if it could feel again, but it seemed to be fossilized inside the dryness of his mouth. Not a good thing, he decided grimly, he still needed it for work.

He'd never liked planes. Even if travelling first class was a big improvement from the first time he took an economy class seat in a plane flying out of Ohio to New York and then from New York to Paris, his big frame never really fit; he always felt too cramped and crowded. The air conditioning was torture, too; it dried him from inside out and left him with a thirst that could not be quenched, no matter how many times he called on the (fuckable, but weren't they all?) stewardess to bring him something to drink.

Then there was the food.

Puck tried not to be too much of a snob, most of the time. He'd eaten the most magnificent foods in the world and still tasted some earth-shattering, revolutionary dishes sometimes, so of course day-to-day couldn't really compare, but he would never spit on it either. There was still an all-American  jock somewhere inside him who didn't care about fancy food and allowed him to enjoy, from time to time, a simple burger or mac and cheese without any fuss. He would be a hypocrite if he tried to erase from his record the time when the only cooking technique he knew was pouring hot water into a Cup-O-Noodles. After all, one of the most important things he learned in cooking class was that every single thing you ate in your life, even the bad stuff, was part of your experience as a chef.

He also knew he couldn't ask too much from airplane meals, but then again, he couldn't help it : dry, rubbery omelets were just plain irritating, no matter the circumstances. The croissant had remained untouched, hadn't even been looked at : croissants that weren't perfectly fresh, crispy and light to the teeth on the outside, fluffy as a cloud on the inside, still warm from the oven, could very likely be considered a crime against humanity in his book. The only breakfast item that had found favour with him had been the fresh fruit: thank God they hadn't done anything more to it than cut it into pieces. He was even surprised they hadn't managed to find a way to fuck up something as simple as cutting up a fruit.

Okay, so, usually, he wasn't so pissy. But it _had_ been a long night, and he truly felt like shit : the bad food had merely been adding insult to injury.

Speaking of which, he was starving now. Luckily, it was almost lunch hour in Connecticut; he hoped his client had that covered at least. It would be great if the meeting took place at a local restaurant, as he was curious to test the quality of the tables there.

He took the file he'd barely read out of the attaché case again and reviewed it as the other passengers were gathering their belongings and starting to queue out. "Aurélien Marlowe and Evan J. Andrews", he read on the invitation that Gill had fixed with a paperclip on the file's cover. The Marlowe kid was a senator's son, according to Marcel. Yalie, law graduate, seasoned cricket player, the whole WASP nine yards... and a raging homo. His affected black-and-white portrait, probably taken by a professional photographer, said it all. Mother a French model, which explained the good looks and the ridiculous name from a Harlequin novel.  
Evan J. Andrews was more of a mystery, though. Well, not in the gay department, at least : famous Broadway singer, tenor, had a thing for onstage cross-dressing, but he was known for being very discreet outside the stage. Very few public appearances, even fewer photos that actually showed his face in a recognizable way.  
Gill had included a copy of some arts magazine in the file, featuring a long article about the guy but it had only one photo, picturing him onstage, in costume (Puck had had to squint a bit at the photo for several minutes before he could recognize Andrews was dressed as some sort of witch), most likely taken from a spectator's seat, and a little blurry on top of that. The guy's PRs had to be totally ninja to manage controlling his image like that.

So that was why Marcel had said that this was going to be a huge gig: big media-driven event coupled with what was likely to be a political coup. Marcel would have rather done it himself but the client had specifically asked for traditional French cuisine, and even Marcel had to recognize that was definitely Puck's forte.

Puck still remembered the heated (and very drunk) argument about molecular and classical cuisine that had started off their friendship, the first time he'd met the former Top Chef finalist, at a dinner after some cooking competition they were both invited to in Vegas. At first Marcel had been a little defiant and very unwilling to strike up a conversation with anybody present, in fear of spending an uncomfortable moment having to justify himself for having been on TV. Puck hadn't particularly wanted to bother, but he'd been bored; plus, there hadn't been really anybody else to talk to, so he'd kept trying to make the other young chef talk. After a few glasses of wine though, things had started to get out of control.

"Don't get me started on Ferran Adrià, man, the guy's a crook," Puck had said, drunkenly banging on the table with his fist. "Why would anyone want to do molecular cuisine anyway?"

"Because it's fun, innovative! Molecular's a true revolution, come on!"

"Mere fashion, all this, just for show. The product, man. When you guys grow up you'll realize cuisine should be all about the product. Even Bocuse..."

"Wha..." stammered Marcel.

"Lemme finish -- even Bocuse dropped Nouvelle Cuisine and went back to basics, to terroir -- shut up -- that guy, he's like, I dunno, Mr Miyagi combined with Obi Wan, you know? So far ahead of us, and he's, like, understood it all, like _everything_ , man. Shut up, lemme speak. What I'm saying is... It all comes down to this. Simplicity. Taste. Product. Bocuse, dude." (Puck finished his glass of Côtes-du-Rhône in one gulp) "Bocuse."

"Bocuse? You cannot be serious! Bocuse is a fucking blimp, who's clinging to his past glory and regularly bribing the Michelin critiques just to hold on to his miserable stars and meaningless title. Now, Robuchon, on the other hand, he didn't hesitate to tell them to go fuck themselves. That guy doesn't need stars. Best fucking chef in the universe is what he is. Always putting himself in danger..."

"Just what the fuck are you talking about? Robuchon doesn't even have one restaurant running in the whole of France! He's flooding the US and Japan with fucking tapas bars, I mean what _is_ the point? France is where gastronomy really matters, dude. There's no 'danger' anywhere else. You can't compare fighting crocodiles in the Amazonian and a friggin' walk in the park, seriously."

"You know what? You're so full of shit I don't even know where to start..."

And so it went.

But then after a few more glasses of excellent wine, they'd finally agreed to disagree and had been all bromacing over each other by the end of the evening. Puck had told Marcel that he totally should have won Top Chef, and that that Ilan dude was just a jackass that deserved a good punch in the face. Marcel had told Puck he'd been considering starting a catering business and he needed a business partner.

A few days later, sobered up,  Puck had gone back to Los Angeles for a one-on-one cook-off with Marcel, to see if their collaboration could work.

Their cooking styles couldn't have been more different; nevertheless, even though the theme hadn't been fixed, they'd both gone for fish.

Puck had made crunchy sardine with thyme purée, quick-pickled lemon, tapenade and an oven-baked tomato stuffed with ground wheat, inspired by his broke culinary student days, when he could only eat cheap food like oil-canned sardines. The general direction of the dish didn't digress much from traditional Provençale cuisine, but that was his style after all: conservative, direct and simple, no tweaks, no tricks. The flavour was raw, uncompromising, the ground wheat and the herbs brought an earthy flavour to the dish. Either you liked it or you didn't, but there was no beating around the bush.

Marcel, he, had made a variation around oyster: oyster meringue, oyster caught in jelly and iodine long cake with caviar, fried shallots, diced daikon and beet as garnish. It was all there, the innovation and the fun Marcel had told Puck about : the play on the textures was constant, and Puck had kept eating  the different components of the dish in shuffle mode, tasting one, then two together, then back to the first one, since they all complimented one another exquisitely. There was a softer echo of the flash-freezed meringue in the espuma that topped the jelly and the cake was a beautiful contrast in its tangibility against the elusive, airy espuma, and the watery nature of the jelly. It was almost reminiscent of Japanese cuisine, the subtlety with which it was all put together and the fact that it was less about the taste, which was, mainly, iodine, than about the texture.

Puck had realized then that not only were Marcel's cooking style and his own different, they were practically polar opposites.

"It's good, this," Marcel had said. "Not crazy about the tapenade but you seem to know your stuff. I honestly never thought sardine could taste so, well, high-end. You took risks, and I respect that."

"Yours is good too," Puck had gruffly recognized. "I still think espuma is prissy BS, but wow, that cake... Is there... what, is that chicken in there?"

"Turkey, yeah, that I've mixed with oysters."

"Wow. Good call, man."

Then Marcel had offered his open hand to a very dumbfounded Puck and said, "So. Wanna be partners in crime?"

Puck had hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"I... I'm sorry, Marcel: I thought what I did today would carry the message clearly enough. Your dish was great, I'll give you that, but it doesn't mean I'm ever gonna go molecular. It's just not my style. The dish I made today represents everything I will ever stand for, and as much as it would be great to work with you, I'm afraid that's final."

"Yeah, I got that. But maybe that's what I'm looking for. Maybe I need someone to counterbalance my own style, and our difference will be our strength. Or... something along those lines. You know, I wasn't looking for someone exactly like me. Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know what kind of partner I was looking for in the first place, but after tasting your dish, I think you might be the man for the job. So what do you say, Puckerman? Shall we give it a try?"

Puck had finally shook Marcel's hand, saying, "Call me Puck," and that was that.  Indeed, with their styles so different, they covered a lot of ground, so maybe that's why they started to acquire a reputation so fast in the business. Of course, the name "Marcel Vigneron" might have had a hand in that, too. Thank reality TV for small favours.

In the airport, Puck picked up his luggage and guitar case off the baggage carrousel and looked for the exit.  
This deal, however, catering for a senator's son's gay wedding with a big name Broadway singer, was the first of real importance of all the contracts they'd had up until then. Massive importance, in fact.

"This is going to be your Vaux-le-Vicomte inauguration," Marcel had said.

"You mean I'll commit suicide before the end of the gig?"

"You do that, and I'll find a way to bring you back from Jew Hell for a special session of ass kicking, believe me. Let's say your Sistine Chapel, if you prefer, and by the way, François Vatel committed suicide at Chantilly, not Vaux-le-Vicomte. Whatever. My point is, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Screw this up, and I swear they'll never find your body. Am I clear?"

"Your threats have no teeth, monsieur Vigneron, I know my mother will avenge me in blood. My studies have cost her way too much to let it go to waste."

(Which wasn't entirely true, but Marcel didn't need to know that, did he?)

"Cut the bullshit for a few seconds and listen, Puck, I'm serious, here : if we score this, it will open all kinds of doors for us, and I'm talking ebony doors with handles of pure gold. Supposedly, we're as good as hired, but they want to meet you first, so they can be sure -- you know how emotional people can be about every single thing when wedding's on the line, and, obviously,  food is a crucial matter. Swear to me you'll do whatever is humanly possible and even more to bring this deal home. We need it. Swear."

"You know me, man. I'll reel this baby in, no prob. Yeah, I swear."

A young woman in a severe navy blue suit and bright acid-yellow high-heeled shoes was waiting for him in the airport hall, holding a board announcing his full name. As Puck got closer, he judged her to be attractive, but it seemed she ferociously wanted people to forget about that: her blonde hair was pulled in an extreme ponytail that also slightly pulled her features back, so she looked a little like an alien that had stolen human skin to use it as a disguise, only the skin was a size too small. She was the type of woman who wanted to look efficient and not to be fucked with - in any sense of the expression. Her make-up had obviously been applied in a utilitarian way, no more, no less. Finally, her stilettos were shaped in a form that made Puck instinctively fear for his crotch.

"Chef Puckerman?" she said, shooting her hand right up in front of his chest in a bold, energetic move. It was so tiny and yet had such a steely grip that Puck felt his eyes water. "Beatrix Lonsdale, pleasure to meet you. I'm the planner."

She eyed the guitar case slung on his shoulder.

"You play the guitar?"

"That's an assault rifle, actually," he smiled.

He forced himself not to look down to check on the remaining distance between her pointy pumps and his genitals after the look she returned him.

"Our car is waiting. Follow me, please," she said icily and turned, stilettos clicking hard against linoleum.

Puck obeyed sheepishly, wishing he really had an gun instead of a stupid guitar in case he had to defend himself, and thinking "Beatrix" sure rhymed with a very specific word that fitted the girl like a glove.

In the ninety minute ride from the airport to the 52-acre estate located in the town of New Canaan where the wedding was supposed to take place, she filled him in on the details of the job.

Puck knew from the file Gill had prepared for him that it would in fact last full two weeks, and if Puck's hiring was confirmed, he was to remain on the premises to cater not only for the wedding itself, but also to provide his services for any meal of the day, small numbers or not, and for the various parties the couple will be hosting, since prestigious guests and members of the extensive family were expected, but were not all available at the same time. The main events would be the official engagement ceremony that would start off the festivities, the rehearsal dinner and, of course, the wedding dinner itself, which would be attended by 400 guests.  
Beatrix explained that it would take place in the open, under a marquee, since the estate possessed an open meadow with a nearby waterfall and late-spring weather in Connecticut was usually perfect for this kind of occasion.

Puck's head was starting to spin, and that wasn't just because he was so famished he was ready to munch on the leather seats of the car. He wasn't intimidated, so to speak, but he was now learning full measure of what was expected of him as a chef for this occasion. His mind was already buzzing with the menus he was planning on doing. He felt truly excited, because that might be his chance to get completely wild with food. Yes, Beatrix told him, the budget was unlimited. No, he wouldn't have carte blanche on the menus, they would have to be discussed and approved first by the spouses-to-be. Yes, the kitchen in the main house was fully equipped, but there were additional kitchens too, in fact, there were two caretaker guest houses on the grounds of the estate, and Puck would be accommodated in one of them during the job. Although if he ever thought that that wouldn't be enough because the number of guests was significant indeed, there was the possibility of renting the kitchen of a nearby French restaurant called _La Vie de Bohème_ , for preparations.

At some point the car took a turn through a pine forest, and soon, where the dusty road turned paved, they were approaching the main house, which Beatrix told him was really a French-style château, reminiscent of those of the Loire Valley in France. It was the first time Puck saw her express some kind of emotion, when she told him about the grand staircase inside. _Chicks_ , he scoffed mentally, even though he might himself have gaped a little when he'd laid eyes on the building. He'd been in France for a long time, but he'd never visited the châteaux in the Loire Valley. Maybe those in France were more impressive or legit, but Puck thought this one did a pretty good job at being romantic and picturesque. White brick walls and grey roof tiles, and many large windows were what he noticed first, then when he stepped out of the car he could admire the pure, simple lines  of the architecture without any flourish, brought out by the subtly landscaped surroundings. He knew nothing about construction, but he felt kinship with this one, based on his philosophy of cooking, what he was striving to achieve as a chef: purpose, conciseness, as well as maintaining the highest standards of simplicity.  
Inside, the woodwork was as beautiful as the facade, and the furniture revealed taste and restraint, precious woods with no shine, only patina, which probably came with the privilege of being an old rich family in Fairfield County. Anything new in this place would probably stick out like a sore thumb. Puck had never been to a house with porcelain plates hung on the walls alongside oil-painted individual family portraits before, and flower arrangements upon corner tables made of stone and metal. He also noticed an old colourless flag torn into shreds attached to a trumpet, and a rusty sabre, both nailed above the chimney in the foyer, souvenirs from the Civil War, no doubt, as if the other ornaments all around weren't proof enough of this family's antiquity. Everything reeked of history and dignity, loaded with centuries and dust.  
As they moved further into the foyer, they met a man of late middle-age with a graying beard and temples, clad in an expensive suit, on his way out. Beatrix took immediate control of the situation by presenting them to each other.

"Senator Marlowe, this is Chef Noah Puckerman. Chef Puckerman, meet Senator David Marlowe, the father of Aurélien."

"It's a pleasure, sir, " said Puck.

"The pleasure is all mine, Chef."

The senator's handshake was confident and practiced, and his smile was measured, not over-friendly, not condescending. A bonafide, pedigreed politician. He added, "So I gather it's Kurt who insisted on having you doing the catering for the wedding?"

With that Puck froze in his tracks. He hadn't heard that particular name in a very long time. Not since high school in fact. It wasn't a common name, not if you didn't live in a musical from the sixties. Yet, he knew such coincidences simply were impossible, so he shrugged the bad feeling away and politely asked, "I'm sorry, sir, who's Kurt?"

Mild surprise showed on Senator Marlowe's face.

"Ah," he said, so you haven't met him then. Here I was convinced you two knew each other. He's in the living room right now. Aurélien will join you in a few minutes. As for me, I'm afraid I can't attend to this particular matter just now, so I'm leaving everything to Miss Lonsdale here and the boys. They're the ones who get the last word, after all. I'll see you around, Chef."

When he mentioned Beatrix's name on his way past them, his hand had darted to pat on the young woman's shoulder. She'd shuddered almost imperceptibly, and the hand had lingered a second too long. From where he stood, Puck had had the utter conviction the old dirty bastard was totally banging the wedding planner. Interesting. Or not. _Rich politicians_ , he thought, jaded. _And chicks_ , he added mentally when he caught the fleeting look of longing that was out of place on the young woman's face, and quickly replaced with her much more conventional type-A mask.  
When Puck entered the living room accompanied by Beatrix, and discovered who was waiting there for him, once the initial shock wore off, he was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kick himself, violently. He should have known.

"Well," he said slowly, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. "Fuck me in the Ozarks." He heard Beatrix behind him faintly gasp at the profanity. "Kurt Hummel."

The young man sitting at the table with his hands primly folded in front of him lifted his head and directed a perfunctory grin at him. Years had passed but he had the same stunning blue eyes and boyish looks, only now he wore his darkened hair neatly combed back: it emphasized his cheekbones and made him look like the romantic lead of a classic Hollywood movie. His general style of clothing had been toned down a little to appear more contained, less juvenile, but it still held the same impeccable, classy, infuriating air it had in high school.

"Noah Puckerman," Kurt said, in the same high-pitched, breathy voice Puck remembered. "Ever a charmer. Please take a seat. Hello, Beatrix," he added with a smile so disarming it could tame lions.

Palpable tension filled the air. Puck took the place opposite Kurt, while Beatrix sat down at the far end of the table. Hesitation was not his style, even though he clearly felt off balance and confused. A thousand questions were popping, one after another inside his brain, but the only one that managed to get through his lips was, "Who's 'Evan J. Andrews'?"

Kurt gave the irritating little laugh he'd had years and years to refine.

"That's my stage name."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"You never struck me as the type of guy who would hide, be it behind another name or costumes. So, why, Kurt?"

Kurt cocked his head to the side and let the silence stretch as he observed Puck thoughtfully, as if considering the right words to explain metaphysics to a five-year-old who had unknowingly asked an adult a delicate question. The crisp blue-gray shirt he wore flattered the color of his eyes and his pale skin, but also added to the Ice Queen impression. In Puck's memories, Kurt had never looked so cold and detached. He finally said, with deadly calm, "Does that imply you pretend to know what type of person I am?"

Puck had no way to reply to that. It was also the moment Kurt's fiancé chose to make his entrance. To say Aurélien Marlowe was good-looking in person was an understatement. With a well-built body with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with flowing blonde locks that curled around his nape, with an aggressive jaw and a sensuous mouth, he looked every bit like the Prince Charming cliché, or, better, the male Barbie to Kurt's Ken, so much that Puck had to muster all of his willpower not to snicker at this vision. It didn't help that he was sporting a salmon pink polo shirt that emphasized the ridiculous children's book boy-and-girl image next to Kurt's blue shirt. Charming went straight to his fiancé, kissed him square on the lips and flopped down into the chair next to him. Then he acknowledged Puck's and Beatrix's presence by a short nod and a smile that maybe, in his mind spared him from actually voicing a greeting.

"Did I miss anything important, _poussin_ ," he asked Kurt, slipping an arm around his shoulder.

"Not at all, _mon amour_ , we were waiting for you to begin the interview."

"Excellent." Charming finally looked Puck in the eye and asked, "So you two know each other, right? Kurt has been so insistant on bringing you here that I thought you might, but he wouldn't go into the details."

By instinct, Puck rolled back his shoulders in an attempt to relax. Kurt was still staring fixedly at him, keeping silent.

Okay. So this was a game of Chicken, then. Fine.

"Yes," Puck said tentatively. "We... used to go to the same school. McKinley High, in Ohio."

"Oh, so you were friends?"

"Far from that, Kurt spoke up, ice-cold eyes never leaving Puck's. "He used to bully me in high school."

Aurélien jumped a little at that and Beatrix's face visibly lost colour at the end of the table.

"Bully you?"

"Yes. He used to throw me into dumpsters, that sort of thing."

"And now you want to hire him for our wedding? _Poussin, franchement_..."

"When I was in high school," Kurt interrupted,  "I made a vow, in front of him and his jock buddies. And when I saw his name on the list of proposals for the caterers, I thought the opportunity was just too good to resist."

"What did you vow?" Aurélien asked.

"Oh, yes. What was it, _Puck_?"

Puck tried not to wince at the venomous use of his nickname in Kurt's mouth, and held his stare.

" 'One day, you will all work for me.'," he quoted.

"I see," Aurélien said after a small pause, now sounding amused as hell. "So this is payback. I like it."

He kissed Kurt on the lips again, with passion, breaking the exchange of stares between him and Puck. Puck considered he'd won the Chicken game by forfeit. A petty victory was still a victory, at this point. When the kiss ended, Kurt said with satisfaction, "Maybe someday I'll learn Dave Karofsky became a plumber and I'll finally get him to clean my septic tank." A chuckle. "Oh, wouldn't that be perfect.

"So that's the big plan, huh?" Puck said, unable to remain quiet anymore. "It's been, what, fifteen years, Kurt? You're ready to wreck your own wedding just so you can get your little revenge? What the fuck?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Kurt said dismissively, with a wave of his hand. "You're supposed to be the best amongst those who proposed their services, and from what I've gathered, traditional French cuisine holds no secrets for you. The revenge part just helped me make up my mind, that's all. I'm an artist and therefore, superstitious, I believe in luck, and destiny. What were the odds of this, seriously?" There was that _laugh_ again. "Consider yourself our wedding's... let's say lucky charm, or mascot. Although don't think we won't expect the very best from you, as your _employers_. If the idea of wrecking everything on purpose ever crosses your mind, however..."

"I'm a professional," Puck interrupted abruptly. " _Mr Hummel_ ," he added, after taking a deep breath, then went on, his voice dropping a few octaves from contained anger. "I'm not childish enough to put my career on the line because of any disagreements you and I might've had during our damn _high school years_. It's been my understanding that I could very well be wasting my time here and sent back to L.A. empty-handed, but if you _do_ decide to hire me, rest assured that I will treat this job just like any other: with all the responsibility and care it deserves." He concluded, glaring: "I'm not here to play games."

"Such a display of maturity now, Puck, I'm impressed. Good, then I guess I won't have to go through the trouble of threatening you with consequences you're already well aware of. By now, you've got to be conscious of the importance of the event, though. You must understand, then, why your trial period won't end with this interview."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, your reputation was enough to get you here, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, isn't it? Our official engagement ceremony will be held next Saturday, in the evening. I will also offer a small recital to our guests, to mark the occasion. It will be more intimate than the wedding, though: only a hundred people, more or less. If you prove yourself capable of catering for the engagement party, then you'll be hired for the rest of the festivities, as the initial deal stipulated. If not..." Kurt shrugged. "So. What do you say, Puck? Are you feeling up to the job?"

Puck took all of three seconds to reflect on this. Bastard had him cornered. Marcel had been very clear on how much they needed this deal, how it would be an inestimable boost to their business. On the other hand... this was fucking humiliating. First that bullshit about revenge and destiny, and now the little fuck wanted to make Puck crawl as long as he had power over him, dangling Puck's reputation in front of his nose.

If Puck had been the only one involved in this, he might have said no, fuck you very much, and told Kurt Hummel to go fuck himself, and his freak fiancé from Shrek 2 with him. Hell, even if it was only him and Marcel, he might have still said no. But there was even more at stake than his pride or his partnership with Marcel. He sighed, his shoulders sagging.

"Okay," he said. "But I have conditions. First, you, and your fiancé, and everyone around here, are to call me Chef, or Chef Puckerman. No more of this 'Puck' business; only my friends call me that. I've worked hard to deserve my title, and I fucking own it. Second, I work with my crew. Whether we're hired afterwards or not, you guys are still paying to get my people here ASAP, if you want your engagement party to be a huge fucking success. Third, I'm the king in my kitchen. Once we've agreed on the menus and everything, nobody messes with me nor orders me around when I'm working. If that happens, it's an instant deal breaker, with no refunds. Am I clear?"

"Wow. Look at the nerve of you, for a guy who doesn't have a choice," Charming spoke up, still smiling and making Puck want to punch his teeth in. "But, you know, fine. We'll see if you're worthy of your reputation, anyway, won't we? A little challenge might even make you want to bring your A game, _Chef_."

Puck sized him up silently, not trusting himself to be polite to the douchebag, and he needed to be polite to the douchebag _now._ Brilliant. Fucking brilliant situation. Aurélien slumped back in his chair, his cocky expression lingering.

"So, it's settled. The caretaker houses are almost ready, but there is still a bit of work that need to be done there before you can move in. It shouldn't take more than a few days. In the mean time, you will have a bedroom in the main house, Beatrix will show it to you when we're through here. Our kitchen including everything in it is at your disposal, of course, so feel free to use it as you like. We won't be needing your services before the engagement party, so you're free to come and go, as long as you can get organized in time. Beatrix." He turned to the pitiful creature who now looked like she was a survivor from Rwanda."Please arrange the details of Chef Puckerman's crew's travel, payment and expenses with him, we need this sorted out quick as poss. Very well, then." He stood up, taking Kurt's hand. "We'll be taking our leave...

"Wait," Puck said.

"What now?"

Charming sounded and looked thoroughly annoyed, all of a sudden. _Mood swings, much?_ Puck thought.

"I need first instructions. What you like, what you don't like... We can discuss the menu in more details another day, although I'd also like that sorted out ' _quick as poss_ ' too, but for now I really need to do the ground work on this."

"Fine."

Aurélien sat back, sulking, and then the cocky smile was suddenly back as he hugged Kurt closer to him again.

"It's simple. Just do anything Kurt wants. Nothing's too beautiful for my spouse-to-be. Tell him what you want, _poussin_."

Was it Puck or was Kurt a little embarrassed? There was something about Aurélien's attitude that Puck couldn't quite put his finger on. But then again he hadn't met a lot of spoiled brats like him in his career. He got his smart phone out to use it as a notebook, awaiting Kurt's instructions.

"I'm not particularly difficult," Kurt said, "but I insist on organic. And as sustainable as possible too, with fruits and vegetables of the season. Ah, and absolutely no foie gras."

"No foie gras."

Puck tried to keep his tone as flat as possible as he typed that blasphemy into his Notes app, but maybe his facial expression gave him away, because Kurt asked in a dry tone, "Is there a problem with that, Chef Puckerman?"

Even though Puck was thinking, _let it slide, none of your business, shut the fuck up and keep your head down_ , his mouth was moving before he could catch it, "You ask for French cuisine, you want to celebrate, and yet... no foie gras. May I ask why?"

"I saw a YouTube video of how it was made and how those geese were tortured, so no, I won't tolerate anything on my plate, let alone in my mouth, that went through such a barbaric process."

Puck, who'd seen a lot of how the food industry worked, didn't want to point out that a lot of animal products sometimes were brought to their plates through even worse processes, because he'd be a fool if he induced any more restrictions in that tree-hugger's shiny little head. If he suddenly decided to go vegan on him, which could very well happen, Puck might kill him with his bare hands.

-"I told you," Aurélien said. "Just do what he says." He kissed Kurt again and Puck was getting sick of this already. "Very good. Are we done now? Can we go?"

Puck was surprised by how much of Coach Sylvester's inspirational speeches on the virtues of caning came back to him all of a sudden. He wished she was there with him to cane some sense into the spoiled motherfucker until he vomited from the pain.

Charming didn't wait for his answer and stood up with Kurt again, pink shirt and blue shirt going hand in hand, walking towards the door.

Puck stood in turn, and calmly called, "Kurt."

Kurt stopped and turned to look at him, while Aurélien scowled. Puck remained unimpressed.

"I won't pretend I ever knew who you were. And maybe you, on the other hand, knew very well who I was, since I must have been pretty easy to figure out, as a teenager. I guess you never saw me in my finest hours, back then. But, just so you know... I've changed."

Kurt took a few steps away from Aurélien's embrace and considered Puck's entire being for a few seconds, then, turning as he left with Aurélien, not looking back, said :

"Don't worry Puck. You're pretty much the same, except you've lost your mohawk."

There was so much contempt in his voice that Puck remained frozen on the spot, and only snapped out of his daze when Beatrix stepped in front of him, all stilettos clicking and her face set in a determined expression. She was no longer lost and had a plan figured out now. Puck didn't know what it was, but judging from her hard features, it had to be something terrifying.

"Please follow me."

She left him in front of his bedroom door and told him that one of the help would bring his luggage up soon. They agreed to discussing the money and general organization the following day, since he was exhausted and wanted recover a little.

Alone in his room, Puck decided he wasn't sleepy after all and had a couple of phone calls to make anyway. But when he got his phone out and saw the notebook application he had forgotten to close, with the mention "No foie gras" on it, he almost threw the device across the room. What the fuck was the  bitch's problem? Fifteen years had passed, so why would he bring up centuries-old stories that nobody cared about anymore, except him and his stupid ego? And if the little bitch hated Puck so much, why would he insist on having him near, catering for his oh-so-important weeding? What the fucking fuck?

He took a few breaths to calm down and decided to call Marcel first. His friend and partner was, predictably, thrilled to hear the news. Even if he might be smelling something fishy in the new arrangement about the hiring depending on the engagement party, he wasn't saying anything. Maybe what he heard in Puck's voice gave him the conviction he didn't want to know, on which he was right. If Puck assured him that everything was under control and that he would most certainly seal the deal, it was all he needed to know. They parted on Puck repeatedly saying "Who's your daddy now?" and Marcel calling him Wolfgang even though he knew how much it pissed his partner off.

Next, Puck called Gill.

"What are you wearing?" He asked as soon as she picked up.

"A Big Bird costume with a strap-on, what do you think? The stalker joke is getting old, Puck."

"Okay then, what are you cooking?"

"Ramen."

"Negi?"

"Damn straight."

Puck laughed, feeling better already.

"You are so not having sex tonight."

"Can it, wanker, last time I checked your sex life was more desolate than the plains of Mongolia. Plus, it's lunchtime here, the smell will be gone by the evening."

"Oh, so you _are_ planning on a booty call, then?"

"Jealous, are we?"

"Of course. Plus, if you have regular sexual intercourse with the same person, you can catch marriage, and I wouldn't want that to happen to my sous-chef."

"Speaking of which, how did the job interview go?"

Puck dropped down on the bed and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"Pretty awful, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Imagine the worst fucked-up situation you can think of, and then add a little more fuck-up sauce with fuck-up sprinkles and a fuck-up cherry on the top. That's how bad it was."

"Ah."

Puck sighed, and thought he might as well spill it all.

"One of the clients. The Broadway singer. I... I know him."

A pause, then in rushed words, "Oh, my God, Puck, _please_ tell me it's not someone you've..."

"No, it's not what you think, or if it is, you should seriously consider a career as a psychic, or a Hollywood writer. I know him from high school. I was a jock, and he was... I used to bully him."

"Oh. Oh wow. Okay."

"Well, yeah, I did some stupid shit when I was younger. At least it never really got violent. It was just... You know... I threw him into dumpsters, mostly."

"Oh God. How many times?"

"Huh. Try... every morning?"

Gill kept a horrified silence at the end of the line.

"Hey, it was a long time ago, and I'm not the same guy, now! Anyway. Fifteen years later, he's out for blood. And I think he has some plan to make me pay. But he still wants me to cater for his wedding, which kinda happens to be the wedding of the century, so it would be really bad if anything went wrong. Oh, and I'm still on trial for the job. I'm supposed to cater for a hundred people on the evening of his official engagement, so they can see if I'm fit for the actual wedding dinner and everything else. Does that even make sense to you? Because I really don't get it".

"Wow. Seriously, wow. That's fucked up alright. If there was an international competition of fucked-up stuff, I think this one would place number one easy, right up there with the fourth book of Twilight and all of Michael Jackson's private auction items."

"You bet. Oh, man. I wish this was happening to someone else."

"And I'm guessing the reason for the bullying was because he was..."

"...Gay, yes."

"Haha! What a hypocrite. And talk about cliché, too."

"Cut me some slack, Gill, it's been a long night _and_ a long day, and I'm hurting, here."

"Well, serves you right. The Ghost of Gay Christmas Past has come around to haunt you, now suck it up and deal with it."

"Not so fast, my ginger friend, because I may not the only one affected by this shit fest."

"I'm not sure I want to know what you mean by that..."

"I can't possibly cater for a hundred people with the stakes so high without the help of you guys."

"Sweet tricycling baby Moses on a skateboard ramp, Puck, why couldn't you leave us out of this?"

"I'm the one who brought each one of you ungrateful bastards out of the gutter, you should show me some respect."

"Fuck you."

"And there's gratitude for you."

"Yeah, well, fuck you some more. Fine. I'll round up the others. You're lucky we all love you a lot, you know."

"I know. You also love the paychecks I write, and I can promise you I'll squeeze the maximum out of this one. I'll let you know about the travelling details as soon as I have them, okay?"

"Thank you, Chef. And, um, Puck?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care okay? We'll be there soon. Hold on until we arrive. You know you can count on us."

Puck felt a wave of tenderness for his sous-chef and his team, knowing she meant it with all the seriousness in the world.

"Yeah. I know. Thanks Gill. You too, take care."

After he hung up, Puck realized he still hadn't had the lunch he was hoping for. He was hesitant to go downstairs and raid the kitchen. He'd been granted permission to do just that, but he didn't want to bump into Kurt; he'd seen enough of him today. Then he thought, to hell with it, he was far too hungry to care anymore.

The kitchen was spacious, clean and quite modern, Beatrix hadn't lied. He rummaged through one of the cupboards and with a cry of victory, found a bag of potato chips. On his way out of the kitchen, he paused. He was a chef. What was he doing, contenting himself with chips? Hunger was not an excuse. His ego had been trampled far enough today, he needed to fix himself something, if only a sandwich, to get back in the race. Plus it might help him relax a bit.

He looked in the fridge, and saw a bunch of red radishes. He tasted one and relished the little peppery bite it left on his tongue, along with the sheer crunchy freshness of it. Perfect.  
He also managed to find cottage cheese, cream, fresh chives, spring onions, parsley, and got sliced bread out of a cupboard. He didn't find the salted butter he wanted, though, but he didn't really need it; that was merely gluttony on his part. He put two slices of bread in the toaster and mixed the cheese, the cream and the chopped fresh herbs in a bowl, then added salt and pepper just as the toasts popped out. He cut the radishes into slices after rinsing them, and couldn't resist popping another one into his mouth whole, as he finished cutting the rest. He finally spread the cheese mixture on the cooling  toasts, then added a layer of radish slices on top. He groaned out loud with the first bite, before he even began chewing. God, that felt good. He resumed eating while covering the bowl of cheese with plastic film and putting it in the fridge, then he cleaned up after himself, before starting on the second toast. That was the most important lesson his first mentor ever taught him: nevermind the cliché of the artist let loose in a kitchen throwing food around and splashing sauces on plates like some cooking Jackson Pollock, a truly great chef never leaves a mess behind.

The house was quiet in the peaceful afternoon and since he was now satiated, he thought he might as well take a look around. As soon as his exploration started, it was rapidly aborted. As he was about to pass by a study with the door ajar, he heard Kurt's voice. Not that he was scared of the bastard, but he considered he took enough shit for the day. He began a slow and silent retreat when he heard Kurt pant, "Nn... no. Stop it, Aurélien."

Puck did not want to eavesdrop on that. He did not.  
Then why was he hiding behind the door, back against the wall, between two ancestors' portraits that were looking down on him -- with reprobation, no doubt?

"I mean it, Aurélien, keep your hands to yourself. You're just trying to get me excited so that I can't say no to you tonight."

"And that's... a bad thing, is it?"

"We had an agreement."

"Oh, you were serious about that?"

"Weren't you? I told you, it's not because I'm gay that I don't want my wedding to be perfect in every single way. Including the fact that I want to give myself to you after we've pronounced our vows, not before. You know I want it to be special."

Puck had to cover the lower half of his face with both hands to muffle a snort. Oh, this was golden. Kurt Hummel wanted a white wedding. After all these years, he was still a virgin, with sappy ideas about sex. Pure gold. Puck had to get away before he burst out laughing.

"Is it really because of that?"

Aurélien's tone had lowered dangerously.

"What do you mean?"

Kurt's voice had shifted too, to a "Careful, I'm not taking any shit from you past this point" tone. From Puck's past experiences with diva bitches, there was the exact point where you had to start reading the signs and find a smart way out without too much damage. At least it wasn't a dead-end, maximum casualties question like, "Do you think I'm fat?"

"Nothing. Kiss me."

 _Not good enough, buddy_ , Puck thought, shaking his head, and indeed, Kurt wouldn't have any of that.

"Aurélien, is there something you want to tell me?"

"Nothing. It's just... I don't know. This guy. The chef."

"Puck?"

"Is it really just about revenge?"

"I thought I made myself quite clear back there."

"Yes, but..."

"Please, _mon cœur_. It's normal to have insecurities before your own wedding, but not when it's Noah Puckerman we're talking about, never. The satisfaction of getting him to work for me as his client is far from being sexual, believe me."

"What if something goes wrong? You know my father expect everything to be perfect. Gay marriage is a crucial point of his program, and this is a bold move for him, since it's his own son..."

"Don't worry, darling," Kurt interrupted. "I don't think he'll screw up the engagement party if his résumé speaks true, and there is far too much at stake for him. If he doesn't meet our expectations, well there are other chefs on the list that can be ready for our wedding at the snap of your father's fingers. I just want to prove to 'Chef' Puckerman that no matter what he does, no matter how far he might climb on the social ladder, he'll always be beneath me. Consider this my wedding gift, okay? I feel nothing but contempt for him, so no need to be jealous, _mon ange_. Trust me."

Puck realized they might be back to sucking face again, since he heard nothing more after that. He had heard enough, anyway. Back in his room, he saw his luggage had been placed by his bed. He took his guitar out of the case and he lay down on the bed as he started picking out chords. He played no melody in particular at first, simply improvising with his mind blank, but after a while, he recognized the guitar part of _Septembre En Attendant_ he had been strumming without noticing. Softly, he started singing along.

 _Juste le temps de battre des cils  
Un souffle, un éclat bleu,  
Un instant, qui dit mieux?  
L'équilibre est fragile_.

Noir Désir had been Olivier's favourite band. Of course he would have to think about Olivier now. It had to be the association of homos and French cuisine, even hearing those words of endearment in French...

 _J'ai tout vu, je n'ai rien retenu_

And those hypnotic blue eyes.

 _Et même si tes yeux dissolvent les comètes  
Qui me passent une à une au travers de la tête_

 _J'y pense encore  
J'y pense  
J'y pense encore..._ (*)

Abruptly, Puck stopped playing. So Kurt Hummel thought he hadn't changed. Thought Puck was the same Lima loser he had known in high school. Thought he was still better than him.

Then Puck knew all he had to do was to prove him wrong.

 


	2. Inciser

Puck woke up earlier than usual the next day, because of the effects of jet lag: it was 4:45 a.m. when his eyes popped wide open.

After a short moment of disorientation, like every time he woke up in a bed other than his own and in an unknown room (believe it or not, it happened less and less these days, and with fewer and fewer naked and nameless bodies by his side. His teenage years were definitely behind him, and maybe that wasn't such a shame after all), he began his day like any other day of his life for the last ten years or so: after a quick stop at the toilet to empty his bladder, and thoroughly washing his hands afterwards (again, his teenage days were over. There was a time when he wouldn't have bothered with personal hygiene at all), he went straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Maybe that was one of the reasons he didn't want to wake up in a foreign bed with a stranger by his side anymore: if he woke up in his own bed, occupied by another person or not, he didn't have to ask permission to use the kitchen, and could cook whatever he wanted - the other person would simply require  increasing the quantities, that was all. Sure the meal that followed sometimes was awkward if the stranger decided to stay and share it with Puck, but at least the food was good. And from experience, good food could make up for at least 50% of the conversation, sometimes 75% if Puck really outdid himself. The remainder -- that is to say, everything other than nods of approval followed by grunts of satisfaction and compliments about this or that were generally long stretches of silence punctuated by meaningless questions, vague answers, talk about the weather and sometimes false promises. It wasn't particularly painful to go through, but as Puck grew older, he started more and more to think that he could do without it, and the sex wasn't always worth the trouble.

It was still pitch black outside the windows when he entered the kitchen, tiled floor cold against his bare feet. Nothing moved, and the click of the switch when he turned the light on was the only noise that was heard in the silence. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear morning, from afar, slowly assembling its regular sounds: muffled bird songs, the crescendo-descrecendo of a late (or early) passing car, but nothing too definite yet. Everything would be much clearer and outlined as soon as the sun started to rise, but right now, in this suspended time, the kitchen was completely his, he realized with satisfaction.  
Quickly assessing the equipment needed for breakfast, he silently thanked god that the Marlowes were so filthy rich: decent coffee machines were hard to find and obviously, those guys knew their coffee. It was the first thing he set in motion, and as the machine started its familiar gurgling noise, and black gold began falling drop by drop into the glass pot circled by shiny metal, exuding a heady scent, Puck gathered the ingredients for the special treat with which he intended to indulge himself.  
He preheated the oven to 400 degrees then stirred flour, baking powder, white sugar and a pinch of salt in a bowl. He put the butter into this preparation and proceeded to rub it between the tip of his fingers until obtaining pea-sized lumps. Then he poured in dry currants, milk and sour cream and mixed gently. With floured hands, he arranged lumps of dough patted into balls on a greased baking sheet and flattened them lightly, barely letting them touch one another. The final touch was brushing the top of each with egg wash made of an egg and a little milk before letting them sit for 10 minutes, and finally putting them in the oven to bake for 10 to 15 more minutes.  He took the sitting and baking time to pour himself a cup of coffee and slowly drank it, enjoying the bitter tang at the back of his throat with each small sip. The blackness outside the window had turned into a light blue canvas sprinkled with dark-blue leaves and branches by the time he took the golden scones out of the oven. He knew the smell and the look of them by heart, and he also knew he would never get over it. He grabbed one scone impatiently, juggling it and blowing on it, though he still burned his fingers and felt slightly ridiculous in the end. And as soon as he considered it had cooled down enough, he let his teeth sink into the moistness of a first, hot, perfect mouthful.

His eyelids fluttered shut and he might have mindlessly grunted out loud, something like "uuuurrrrh fuck me I'm a genius," when he felt the rich texture of the scone melting on his tongue. The only problem was, by the time he opened his eyes again, his mouth still full of scone, he saw Kurt Hummel and Aurélien Marlowe staring back at him with dismay. They were standing on the threshold of the door leading from the kitchen to the garden, and obviously back from a morning  jog, if the matching expensive-looking tracksuits they were wearing, the thin layer of sweat on their faces clumping strands of hair together over their brows, and Kurt's cheeks, even redder than usual, were any clue.

Charming gave Puck a disdainful once-over and Puck followed his stare, looking down at his own body. He was wearing nothing but worn-down pajama pants.  Looking back at the couple, he saw Kurt standing frozen on the spot, eyes wide and his gaze stuck at the level of Puck's abs. Puck swallowed without any further chewing and chose to smile at his clients while quickly brushing off some crumbs that got stuck upon the pants' elastic band, around the waist. He noticed Kurt's eyes were following his every movement.

"Would it be too much to ask what the hell you're doing in the kitchen half-naked, Chef Puckerman?" Aurélien asked, visibly pissed.

"Baking scones," said Puck, letting the unspoken "duh" seep into his tone. "You said the kitchen was mine, didn't you?"

"The kitchen, yes. Although I'd certainly be grateful if you spared my fiancé of that kind of vision in the morning."

"Aurélien..." Kurt started, placing a soothing hand on his fiancé's arm.

As Puck could see where this was going and deciding he could do without a pissing contest first thing in the morning, he quickly raised his hands in the air as a sign of peace. However, he also couldn't resist flexing his muscles a little along the way, and almost smirked as that caught Kurt's full attention again. "You're right, you're right," he said. "I'm sorry. Can I finish my breakfast, at least?"

"By all means. Don't let us ruin it for you," said Aurélien dryly. Then he turned to Kurt, placing his hand on the small of his fiancé's back, "Come, _poussin_ , let's hit the shower."

Puck tried not to show his surprise at this request. So they didn't fuck but still took showers together? Charming had to be a fucking saint if he kept his promise under those conditions. He felt a newfound respect for the douchebag, mingled with a little pity.

Kurt lightly kissed Charming on the cheek and said, "You go in, _mon ange_ , I need a glass of OJ to replenish. Joining you right away, okay?"

Aurélien didn't seem too happy with this but there was nothing he could say. He glowered at Puck, who had innocently resumed his eating, and announced, "I'll make arrangements so that one of the guest houses is ready to accommodate you tonight at the latest, Chef. We wouldn't want to bother you by keeping you here with us. I'm sure you wish for a little independence by now, right?"

Puck refrained from telling him that it was not his fault that Aurélien couldn't keep his diva bitch satisfied so there was no point in venting his anger on him like that, so he just replied, "Right," and let Aurélien leave the kitchen in peace after he parted from his fiancé with a quick peck on the lips.

In silence, Kurt walked up to the fridge and took out a carton of juice. He awkwardly brushed past Puck to fetch a glass, poured himself some juice and tried to down it in a few gulps. At first Puck didn't want to make things easy for him, so he didn't really move his big frame out of the way when Kurt tried to walk past him, and he kept silent, merely observing the boy he used to bully in high school drinking his glass of orange juice, as Puck himself was finishing his scone. Then the inspiration struck and he decided he could play a little. He was already bored with the whole "mortal enemies" fantasy that Kurt was trying to revive: blurring the lines just a tad might turn out more entertaining, at least.

"Want a scone?" He asked, waving in the general direction of the golden cakes. "They're freshly baked."

He expected Kurt to say no and Kurt obviously sensed that, since there was a defiant look in his eyes when he set his empty glass down, licked his lips like a cat, tossed his hair to the side with a shake of his head and said, "Yes, sure, why not?"

"Ah. Hang on," Puck said. He went to open the fridge and got out the cream from the day before. He also managed to find a pot of strawberry jam. The scones were by now at a perfect temperature, just on the right side of warm. Puck cut a bite-size slice into one of them with a knife, and used one spoon to cover it with cream, another to put jam on top, then he held out the piece of cake with the tip of his fingers, looking Kurt right in the eye expectantly. Kurt didn't disappoint: he walked right up to Puck, baby blue eyes ablaze, and there might have been a very short moment where he seemed to consider whether he should remove the bit of scone from Puck's fingers with his own or...  
Maybe what he read in Puck's eyes at that moment helped him make up his mind, because next thing Puck knew he was seeing the top of Kurt's head invading his personal space, he felt the brush of Kurt's full lips against his fingertips and just like that, the slice was gone and his fingers were left tingling.  
Kurt took a step back with an expression of triumph, quickly replaced by surprise when his brains finally caught on with what his mouth was experiencing. It was almost comical to watch: Kurt's eyes grew wide and the upper part of his body kind of rattled, like he'd been hit by invisible Chuck Norris. He brought his fingers to his lips, touching them lightly as he chewed and swallowed slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening in there.

"It's..." He started, gaping at Puck with a stupid expression. He shook his head and pulled himself together again. "Okay. That may very well be the best piece of scone I've ever eaten."

Puck gave a short laugh.

"Why do you sound so disbelieving? Aren't my cooking skills the reason you hired me?"

"I don't..." Kurt said, then stopped himself, eyes narrowing.

"Here, have the rest," Puck said, feeling magnanimous as he offered the scone he'd cut.

Kurt opened his mouth and it appeared like he would refuse, but in the end he accepted the offered cake without a word, taking it with his hand this time and bringing it himself to his mouth.

"It's so... It's.... light, and moist," he said in an entranced tone, around a mouthful. "The scones I've had up until now were all sort of, flaky, or crumbly. How is that even possible?"

"The secret is the way you work the butter," Puck automatically answered. "And the dough has to be handled gently too - never overwork the dough is the golden rule, here. Also, the currants do wonders for the moistness too, because..."

"I'm sorry," Kurt interrupted, rudely waving his fingers in front of Puck's face, "I'm not listening, actually. I can't hear you over the orgasm I'm having right now."

Puck paused at that and raised an eyebrow. He couldn't spot a lot of changes on Kurt's face since his cheeks were already red from running to begin with, but he noticed Kurt's ears and nape were quickly taking up the same colour, and Kurt didn't quite meet his eye. Maybe Kurt wasn't even aware of it, but the young man's gaze was roaming over Puck's abs again, and their owner decided he wouldn't let it slip this time.

He opened his arms in a Christ-like fashion and asked, "Like what you see?"

Kurt jumped and averted his eyes by reflex.

"Oh, no, don't stop ogling on my account. Knock yourself out, go on. You don't get enough play, so you might as well indulge yourself..."

That had its effect, to Puck's deep satisfaction. Kurt paled visibly, his mouth reduced to a thin line.

"And how on earth would you know that?" He articulated, with icy, deliberate calm.

Puck noted that he wasn't denying. _Alright. Time to play cards on the table_ , Puck thought.

He hoisted his body on the kitchen counter and sat there, deflecting Kurt's murderous stare with a half-smile.

"I heard you, with Aurélien. Yesterday afternoon, in the study," he said, not bothering to specify precisely what and how much.

Kurt didn't even flinch. "So what?"

Puck shrugged. "So, nothing. It's great that you guys aren't interested in sex, it's so rare. Or was the idea of taking showers together inspired by you wanting check on the goods before signing up for anything? I can totally understand, you could have a bad surprise on your wedding night, like, he could be deformed, or have a small dick..."

"Shut up, you're disgusting."

"Oh," Puck smirked knowingly. "Meaning he does?"

"That's it. You've gone too far."

Puck let himself slide from the counter and he reached Kurt in three steps, taking him gently by the wrist in order to stop the young man as he was turning to leave. Barely touching him, just to show he was not threatening.

"Come on, Kurt, just kidding. Show me you can take a joke."

Kurt didn't reply. He just looked insistently at his wrist caught in Puck's loose hold. Puck let him go. To his utter relief, Kurt didn't flee.

"I heard some mean things about me yesterday," Puck continued. "I mean, hey, fair is fair, and sure, I had it coming, I'll be the first to admit that. But then don't be surprised if I get a bit cheeky in return."

"Sure, I can take a joke," Kurt said in a white voice. "The dumpsters, the slushies, the insults, maybe they were your idea of a joke too. I took it all right, considering." He let out a bitter chuckle. "If you think what you heard yesterday was 'mean,' think about all those years of physical and psychological torture for which you were responsible, Noah Puckerman. And let me tell you something: you have absolutely no right to get 'cheeky' now."

"So, what," Puck protested, "am I supposed to bend over and just take it? That was your objective from the start, wasn't it? Sorry, Kurt. I've taken enough shit from life as it is already. It's too bad you didn't get to have your role in it -- I'm sure that would have made a lot of stuff easier for you, but I'm way past that revenge crap and your little preschool games.  Yeah, I'm sorry, I was an asshole, and I hurt you bad. But you, my friend, need to move on, now. Fuck, you're about to get married, man, come on! The only way I can atone for my sins towards you now is to try my best for this contract, and contribute to the success of your wedding ceremony, so don't make my life any more complicated than it already is, okay? It's for your own good."

He was breathing a little hard at the end of his diatribe. He hadn't planned on getting so caught up in it as he was going; he wasn't even aware he was so angry himself in the first place. Maybe he'd said more than he'd intended at first, but at least that had silenced Kurt for a while. They stood facing each other, glaring, each searching for the truth in the other's eyes.

"Is that why you accepted?" Kurt said finally, arms folded around his lithe frame. Anger was leaving his posture and face gradually. It was like he was becoming a whole different person. Still hostile, maybe, but noticeably more relaxed.

"What?"

"The deal. Accepting it, was it a form of apology for you?" Kurt asked, cocking his head to the side. Frowning. "Because you were feeling guilty?"

Puck blinked in puzzlement. He realized it was indeed what he'd just said, plainly. Somehow, the idea hadn't crossed his mind before it crossed his lips.

"Dude, I'm a Jew," he said after a pause, shrugging. "Guilt is what my people do. So, yeah, I guess that was taken into account when I said yes, perhaps. But that's not all there is to it, there are other reasons, too."

He was feeling uncomfortable, all of a sudden. He needed to occupy himself with something, so he started to gather the scones to pile them on a plate, and then he set about cleaning up his mess. He shot a few glances at Kurt as he did so, but Kurt didn't show any sign of wanting to leave the kitchen anytime soon. In fact, he looked rather lost in thought. Puck felt the urge to say something, anything.

"So. What's his dick like?"

Kurt was startled out of his reflections, but he wouldn't bother to appear shocked by Puck's crudeness anymore.

"I am still not having this conversation with you," he sighed, as if dealing with a difficult child.

"No, seriously: naked, in the shower, together, and no fucking allowed? How do you do that? Is there some kind of secret technique, like, making a knot or what?"

"Not all of us are animals, Puck. We behave, that's all."

This time the use of his nickname was different from the first time he heard it in Kurt's mouth, so he didn't want to react to it particularly now; he thought it might ruin the good mood.

"You just like to keep his balls crushed, don't you? Nice marriage it will make, too; I can see you're already getting the hang of it."

To Puck's surprise, that provoked a genuine laugh from Kurt. Encouraged, he carried on, "I, for one, know I wouldn't be able to resist. Cockblocking is so not my thing."

Again, he had blabbered away without thinking. Two sentences that, in this context, could be taken in a very wrong way, but he couldn't possibly take them back now, anyway. Fortunately, Kurt didn't seem to note the implication. He said, "My point exactly; you always were an animal," then added, as serious as a pope, "Blowjobs and handjobs are permitted, if you really want to know. It's just penetration that's...Well, my anal virginity is intact. I'm not entirely sure if it's the same for Aurélien and I don't really care, but I didn't penetrate him either, and won't until our wedding night. Probably. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

Puck burst out laughing.

"You think what I say is funny?"

Cold anger would start creeping back into Kurt's tone very soon if Puck wasn't careful, and it would endanger any chance of truce between the two of them, but he couldn't help it.

"With all due respect, fucking hilarious is what it is, yeah. I'm actually more experienced than you in your own field of expertise. Who would've thunk, huh?"

Puck liked a responsive audience, he always had, no matter the price to pay or the lengths he would have to go to have an impact of any kind. Kurt's flabbergasted expression after the bomb he'd just dropped? He positively delighted in. In a moment Kurt would have to pick up his jaw from the floor if he didn't want to catch mouth infections.

"W... what do you mean?"

Even Kurt's stutter was music to his ears.

"Nothing more than what I've just said," Puck replied casually. He calmly grabbed a scone which he proceeded to cover with cream and jam, and walked towards Kurt, whose feet were apparently glued to the floor. "Told you I've changed."

He scooped a little cream with his index finger and left a trace of it on the young man's button nose as he brushed past him.

"See ya, princess," he drawled, licking his finger clean.

Leaving the kitchen, Puck allowed himself to smile widely before stuffing the scone into his mouth.

That was a perfect exit.

 

***************

Puck devoted the beginning of the week to visits to markets, meetings with the local organic farmers and searching for the best-stocked wholesale trades, bearing two criteria in mind -- abundance and quality.

Busy as they both were, he didn't get the chance to see Kurt again after the little stunt he'd pulled in the kitchen. Aurélien had also kept true to his promise and had Puck moved into one of the guest houses the very same day. His new lodgings were modern -- he wouldn't admit it to himself, but he was glad: he felt intimidated in that museum of a house and he hated that feeling -- nice, clean and spacious enough, and more importantly, far enough from the main house so that Aurélien would consider Puck less of a threat to his fiancé's loyalty and virtue. At any rate, they wouldn't be likely to bump into each other by chance, now. And perhaps that was for the best, too. In the spur of the moment, Puck hadn't been able to resist the opportunity and had sort of gone with the flow, but now, with hindsight, maybe it hadn't been such a smart move. He didn't know what would possibly come out of it; whether he would finally have peace, or if all hell was about to break loose any moment now, so he was making the most of the delay. Plus there was nothing else he could do, except concentrate on the task at hand. The problem was that he also had to fight Beatrix every step of the way: he did try to persuade her to wait for his _brigade de cuisine_ to arrive before settling on the engagement party's menu with the spouses-to-be, but then he ended up giving up altogether and stuck to simply avoiding her as much as he could. Beatrix was obviously starting to go apeshit: first because of the potential tensions between him and Kurt, which might ruin all of her hard work thus far and second, because the date of the engagement party was nearing and she couldn't rely on anything last-minute, since she didn't trust him one bit -- and Puck literally had other fish to fry than to deal with the paranoid bitch.

Fortunately, by the middle of the week, as he was just this close to throwing in the proverbial towel, his _brigade_ was there.

The first person to come out of the sleek black cars that pulled up in front of Puck's guest house was Jeoff, his sauté cook.  Jeoff was an overly-quiet, chubby, thirty-three year-old Californian whom Puck had thought a lost cause at the job interview: the fat weirdo would almost jump at every question, and answered them with inaudible mumbling, wringing his hands all along. Textbook-case psychopath, in Puck's opinion, and Jeoff's geeky, overgrown-baby looks did not help, even though the cooking school Jeoff had studied at held quite a good reputation and his grades were rather remarkable. However -- even if you chose to overlook appearances -- because of how physically taxing the job was, it was a given that working in a kitchen required excellent physical shape. Puck had years of high school football practice to thank for that, and all that muscle also gave him the prerogative to squarely refuse obese co-workers; chances were they'd end up getting in the way and he certainly wouldn't abide that. Plus, good communication was crucial in a brigade, and the weirdo hadn't been able to utter more than two words in a way that could be understood by human beings. Those constituted at least two solid, universally acceptable arguments to dismiss the application. Had Marcel not insisted, though, that the autistic train wreck should at least be evaluated through try-outs, Jeoff might not be on his _brigade_ today. Puck would readily admit now that it would have been a true loss -- the classic rabbit _sauce chasseur_ Jeoff had prepared that day counted as one of the most successful dishes he'd ever tasted in his life.

He greeted Jeoff with a pat on the shoulder, not offering a handshake; Jeoff didn't like them, and Puck himself generally didn't regret too much being spared the feeling of the limp, damp hand with squishy fingers feebly grabbing his own strong grip in return. Jeoff mumbled something which might have been a greeting and made way for Puck to move on to greet Cissy, his roast cook, a young woman from Tampa with Indian origins which graced her with gorgeous dark skin and long shiny blue-black hair she wore in a tight braid. In her own way, Cissy was the quiet type too, although not because she was particularly shy or uneasy with oral communication, more by choice, in fact. She was the kind of person who remained silent if they didn't have anything to say, and as it happened, she just naturally didn't have much to say. She applied the same no-bullshit policy in her job: her style was efficient, practical, and direct. She knew what she had to do and didn't have to be told anything twice; in other words, just the cook that Puck had needed when he had started to assemble his _brigade_. She had come to the job interview on Gill's recommendation: the two women had worked together in the same steak house in Florida for two years and got along pretty well. That fact alone finished convincing Puck that he should hire her; if Cissy, in addition to all her other qualities, was patient enough to put up with Gill's bossiness in the kitchen for two whole years, then she was fit for any job. Gill was generally a sweet girl if you got to know her, and an excellent cook, but as a sous-chef, she sometimes pushed the others hard -- which was part of her job description, actually, but she had also broken many cooks along the way and such turnover might have translated into bad press for Puck and Marcel's business had it continued like that.

In the end, Cissy turned out to be a sweet girl, too. Puck had thought about bedding her, once, on a drunken night. After all, she was a nice, attractive young woman, and he knew he didn't leave her completely cold either. It had been one of those nights where anything could have easily happened, in the space of a thought -- even an alcohol-induced thought. Nevertheless, Puck hadn't been drunk enough to forget Gill would have his balls if he ever disrupted the dynamics on the team by screwing around, so nothing had happened, and today he was grateful that for once in his life, he hadn't thought with his dick.

The roast cook took his handshake and simply nodded with a smile when he asked her how she was doing. Just one of the many subjects that didn't require development, in her opinion.  
   
Third came Anthony, nonchalant Englishman -- which sounded redundant, but there was no other way to define him -- fish cook and entrée preparer, and Puck reckoned Anthony was quite the womanizer too. He was one of those men who got considerably more handsome as they aged, like Sean Connery. As a younger man, Anthony mustn't have scored as much as did now -- and he was reaching a respectable age, that Puck estimated around 50 although Anthony would never tell. His tranquil confidence, his calm, reassuring gestures, his lazy smile and heavy-lidded gray eyes seemed to work wonders on women with a daddy complex; as a result, Anthony often dated younger and hotter foxes than Puck's own trophies. In the kitchen, however, Anthony's manner changed: he became more intense, doing everything with a focus and a precision he never showed outside the job -- or maybe he did, but in situations Puck would rather not think about.

"I hear you got yourself in quite a messy situation, Chef?" The Englishman said with his usual detached amusement as he shook Puck's hand.

"So Gill told you, huh?" Puck sighed. "Dude, you have no idea. But now that you guys are here everything is already starting to look better."

"We'll see about that. Frédérique has been insufferable during the whole trip and some serious bitching is coming your way, I think."

"Oh, shit. What is it this time?"

"Well, the little I could gather -- over my headache from his incessant yammering with his atrocious accent, poor grammar and limited vocabulary -- was something about wedding cakes. But you'll hear it all soon enough, here he comes."

When the young dark-haired, dark-eyed, small-framed pastry chef came out of one of the cars in turn and walked up to him with angry strides and a sullen expression on his face, Puck chose to turn the charm up to a maximum. "Hey, Frédérique, my man, ready to..."

" _Shut_ ze _fuck_ up. Don't fucking _talk_ to me," Frédérique interrupted briskly. "Why you make me come here, hah? For making fucking _wedding cake_! Stupidest fucking cake to make on ze planet, what were you ssinking? I fucking _hate_ you! Why didn't you buy fucking wedding cake at ze supermarket, no? Save me ze time, and ze tasteless _fuckers_ zey won't be able to tell ze difference. Wedding cake! Stupid gaudy piles of _shit_ , all of zem! Fuck it all!"

Puck barely had the time to blink as Frédérique finished delivering his hateful speech with broad, menacing gestures and stormed past him to join the other cooks who were standing by the front door of the house, awaiting instructions.

Like most Frenchmen Puck knew, Frédérique had a tendency to overuse the word "fuck" when he spoke English -- worse than Gordon Ramsay on a really bad day -- but Puck was way past taking offense at that kind of thing. After all, Frédérique had a foul mouth and issues with authority: of course Puck would like him.

Behind him, he heard a familiar voice say in a hushed tone, "I think he's trying to tell you thanks for the trip, and the job, and that he's looking forward to revolutionizing the very concept of wedding cake."

Puck smiled.

"Yeah, that's what it read to me too," he replied in an equally low voice.

"He's lucky pastry chefs are considered a little apart in the _brigade_ , though, because if that brat worked under my direct orders, he would definitely -- hey!"

The sous-chef yelped out in surprise as Puck turned to take her in his arms.

"Good to see you Gillian," he greeted, meaning every word.

"Technically, you can't see me when you're trying to smother me with your chest, now, can you?" She asked in a muffled voice. She was so petite that she almost disappeared in his embrace, her face buried in his shoulder. "Let go of me, you big oaf, you're embarrassing me in front of the children!"

"Never. You're mine, baby, and tonight, when you and I are alone, I'm gonna take my time, and make sweet, sweet--"

"Ahem."

Puck intended to finish his sentence with something idiotic like "tartlets with you" but he didn't get the chance. Kurt and Beatrix had appeared out of nowhere and were standing there watching as he released his hold on Gill, finally letting his sous-chef breathe normally again. Kurt sure had a knack for happening on him with the weirdest timing, Puck reflected.

"Mr... Andrews, Miss Lonsdale. What can I do for you?"

"We came to see if everything was all right, and if your team had arrived safely," Kurt said, with just a hint of resentment in his voice. Puck didn't know where that tone came from, but he figured Kurt might still be just a little pissed about the kitchen incident. He briefly wondered what Kurt was doing here in person, before he realized that Beatrix must have asked him for support since she couldn't get her hands on Puck, and she'd thought that he wouldn't turn her down again if their employer was there. Sneaky, and not very bright, in Puck's opinion; it wouldn't do much for her credibility if she ran to her mother's skirts every time she experienced some difficulties with the people she was supposed to coordinate. She had to be very new at this. Another thought occurred to him, as he remembered Senator Marlowe's hand on her shoulder: maybe she got the job because of another type of experience.

"Yes," Beatrix spoke in turn, eyes shooting daggers at him -- at least where _she_ was concerned he knew exactly what the anger was about. "And we were wondering whether you would have the time to speak to us about Saturday's menu. Mr Andrews happens to be  available this afternoon and I thought this would be a good opportunity to--"

"Doesn't Mr Marlowe have a say on the menu too?" Puck interrupted, not bothering to remain polite towards the wedding planner anymore.

"Mr Marlowe is busy at the moment, so he's leaving every decision to Mr Andrews and me. Also, may I add Mr Andrews is on a very tight schedule too, so if you could--"

"I hear you, Miss Lonsdale," Puck cut her off again. "My people have barely arrived and they must be tired from their trip, but I'm sure they'll understand the imperatives of your job. We'll get to work right away so I can present you and Mr Andrews a list of propositions for Saturday." He quickly added before she could open her mouth, " _After lunch._ " His tone was final and Beatrix didn't dare to protest.

"Good," Kurt said. "We'll be waiting for you in the main house's living room; Beatrix and I will be sorting out other details in the mean time. See you then."

He turned and left, closely followed by the planner. Gill let out a long whistling sound when they were out of hearing range.

"Hot stuff," she chirped. "And a very nice ass he has. I'd totally bully that, too, if you ask me, even though he might enjoy it a little less than with you."

Puck barely suppressed a grimace. Gill had the physique of a leprechaun -- a lithe and small body, red hair that she'd recently cut so short that it didn't conceal her stuck-out ears anymore, and a wicked grin that sent sparkles shooting in her blue eyes -- and sometimes Puck believed she behaved like one too.

"Look, Gill, no laughing matter, okay? I barely convinced him -- using my irresistible charm -- not to exact whatever kind of revenge he had in store for me, so don't remind him, even by accident, of why he should hate me. No jokes about it, no remarks, nothing. Let's try at least to get some work done here."

"Ooh, touchy, I see. Puck and hot gay Broadway singer, sittin' in a tree..."

He chose to blatantly ignore her and turned to the rest of his team to announce, "There are two houses to accommodate us, guys. Cissy and Gill will remain here with me, while Anthony, Frédérique and Jeoff will move to the other one, which is not far down this path."

"And why would you be the one who gets to stay with the ladies?" Anthony protested.

That comment earned the British cook a general bout of laughter.

"Because I'm the _chef de cuisine_ , Tony," Puck replied, trying -- and failing -- to keep a serious face. "It means I'm the guy who gets privileges that you bums don't. You also know that I would never, ever entrust 'the ladies' to _you_ in particular."

The cooks all laughed good-naturedly again. Puck clapped his hands, once.

"Anyway, for now, let's all have lunch at _la casa de_ Puck," he said, gesturing them towards the house. "And then we can put our heads together and decide what kind of poisonous shit we're going to serve all those capitalist fatcats and political scum on Saturday. Come on now, team, let's get to work."

**********

Over a fragrant dish of Thai green curry and rice that Cissy, Anthony and Gill had prepared using fresh basil that Puck had received as a gift from one of the organic farmers, they started to discuss the menu. It went rather well and quickly; only the dessert turned out to be a bit of a problem.

"We can't have everybody's full attention on the dessert," Puck declared, "because of the recital at the end of the meal. It will have to be finger food, nibbles that can be eaten standing. We'll just turn the drinks-and- _canapés_ buffet in the ballroom into a dessert buffet and people will get them there. What do you think?"

Gill was hesitant.

"I get your point, Puck, but _mignardises_ can't be considered proper dessert, you know, especially if you serve them like _canapés_. Won't they complain? Also, I'm not sure about the change of formula -- dishes served to them during dinner, then they have to get up and fetch the dessert themselves? Sounds like a complication to me, and another subject of complaint."

" _Mignardises_ are just fine," Frédérique put in with a satisfied expression. "Anyssing _not_ fucking wedding cake is fine. Just don't call zem 'nibbles' in front of zem, and zey won't say shit. Also, I will make different kinds of zem, and, like, very traditional, very French, but small, you know? Zey won't say shit."

"So, what are you proposing, Frédérique?" Puck asked.

"I was ssinking, mini _éclairs_ , you know, ze kind I made you taste last time. And _macarons_ , of course, yes? Zey go well wiz ze coffee,  so you put ze coffee at ze buffet too. People get up to get zeir coffee, zey take ze _éclairs_ and _macarons_ on ze way and zey remain standing for listening to your friend sing. _Macarons_ go well wiz ze champagne too, so it's also perfect for a final toast. Good, no?"

"He's not my friend." Puck glared at Gill when she snickered. "Other than that, yeah, excellent idea. Do you have something more, just in case?"

"For somessing zat looks a bit more like dessert, if you wish, let's say... Small _crèmes brûlées_. Zis way, everybody is satisfied, plus you can't get more French. Make it a trio: lavender, orange blossom and -- ah, fuck, what do you call it? _Romarin_?"

"Rosemary," Puck and Gill translated almost instantly.

"Sounds good. That's not exactly finger food, though," Puck objected.

Frédérique shrugged.

"Well it's not messy, unlike _choux à la crème_ , it's still refined, ze ladies love it and you can eat it standing all ze same. Just not wiz ze coffee, of course, zey won't have enough hands. But not everybody will drink coffee, so it's okay. Ze only problem will be burning ze sugar; zat, we will have to do on ze spot."

Puck looked questioningly at Gill, who looked back and nodded.

"Okay, guys," Puck concluded. "I think we're good to go."

**********

Kurt seemed satisfied with the list of propositions and he made his choice among them, except for the dessert, which, to Puck's relief, he didn't question; he merely asked for all of the items at once: _éclairs_ , _macarons_ and _crèmes brûlées_.

"What kind of flavoring will the _éclairs_ have?" Kurt asked.

"My pastry chef wants to go for four kinds: chocolate, rose, matcha and blood orange," Puck said. "In my opinion, and even though it's a lot less unusual than the rest, the chocolate one is amazing. The _crème pâtissière_ inside isn't sweet; it's made of very dark and bitter chocolate. Only the top, the _glaçage_ , is sugary, so it creates a balance; not bitter at all, not too sweet, absolutely perfect."

"What is 'matcha'?"

"It's basically Japanese green tea."

"Japanese?" Kurt repeated doubtfully.

It took Puck a few seconds to identify the problem.

"Not typically French, indeed, but it's used so much in French pastry nowadays that might as well be considered as such. We could leave it out, if you prefer, although it would be a shame for the color scheme -- matcha gives food a vivid green colour naturally, and it makes sense when you see all four _éclairs_ aligned. It's the same for the taste, all four are meant to go together, and in that context matcha isn't exotic at all; I honestly don't think it will shock anybody's palate. But I could arrange for a tasting, if you like, so you can see for yourself."

"That won't be necessary," Kurt said. "I won't have the time anyway. Matcha it is, then. Make sure everything is perfect."

Puck gave a short nod. Of course he would.

**************

Finally, D-day came. Finally, Puck was where he belonged, in the midst of pure chaos, with plates and pans clattering, people rushing around, food and fire everywhere. He was always on the move too, barking orders, trying to dry off the sweat that never stopped pouring from his brow -- enjoying it all to no end.  
Beatrix had been hovering in the kitchen at the beginning of the evening and had almost caused Puck to breach the contract, before Anthony quickly intervened and pretended to need her opinion on his entrée, a subtle trick to get her out of the way without causing a blood bath. Had she remained looking over Puck's shoulder to check on what he was doing, he would have ended up turning her into sausage, no doubt. Now she was gone, probably to supervise the ballroom and the guests, and everything was for the best.

"Jeoff!" Puck yelled as he plated the last of the langoustine ravioli, which was the first dish to go out of the kitchen. "You've been taking ages! Where the fuck is that sauce?"

He didn't wait for Jeoff to answer and went directly over to the sauté cook to have a taste of what was in the pan.

"Reduce it," he commanded, "it's too flat, and definitely needs more oompf to it. Don't add any more vanilla, just sharpen the acidity. Also, you need to hurry the fuck up."

Jeoff, looking frantic, merely shook his head in acquiescence, which made his cheeks wobble, and augmented the fire. Puck felt someone bumping into him as he was turning to check on Cissy.

"Sorry, Chef," Gill apologized, and then she shouted over Puck's shoulder, painfully close to Puck's ear, "Anthony! Lobster! And I need you to start plating that gazpacho!"

"I'm on it, love!" Anthony shouted back.

Everything passed in a blur when they were caught in the rush like that; soon the white gazpacho was out, and Jeoff made Puck taste the final version of the vanilla sauce to go with the lobster.

Puck swore out loud.

"Not good?" Jeoff asked, looking like he was about to pass out any minute.

"It's good, but that's not the point. It just hasn't cooled down enough; I burned my tongue. I can tell the lobster will overcook when you put this on it. Fuck, Jeoff, how many times do I have to tell you to mind the timing?"

The sauté cook cringed as if Puck was going to hit him.

"Okay, and you really need to stop doing that," Puck said, trying to go back to a more even tone. It would do neither him nor Jeoff any good if he lost his temper now. "We don't have a choice, now, anyway, time is running out; let's just pray they won't notice. Come on, keep moving, start pouring that fucking sauce on the lobster, go!"

Jeoff rapidly complied. Puck turned his attention on Gill and Cissy as they cut slices of the duck breasts rubbed with _espelette_ : with just the right amount of blood and juices oozing from it, the meat presented an enticing shade of pink and looked perfectly cooked. At least that dish was going to be a hit, Puck thought, especially with the caramelized gingerbread sauce -- one of Jeoff's inventions. Jeoff sure was a weirdo and his timing was definitely crap, but Puck would never fire him as long as he came up with brilliant ideas like this one.

"Gill!" He called.

The sous-chef raised her head, not stopping the movements of her hands.

"I'll let you handle the _mille-feuilles_ ; I'm going to give Frédérique a hand out there."

"All right, Chef, see you."

He got out of the kitchen and walked through the corridors until he reached the ballroom at the far end of the house, where the dining tables had been arranged. Before he entered the ballroom, he rolled his sleeves back down to look more presentable. He had donned his favorite cooking blouse, black and subtly underlined at the cuffs, collar, and hems by a single, deep red stripe. He possessed a more traditional white blouse, of course, that he had almost never worn since his return to the States. He knew black look good on him, made him look even more dangerous: that was an image he was fine with projecting.  
Once inside, he had no trouble spotting Kurt, seated next to his fiancé, and looking like a billion bucks; the singer was even more impeccably dressed than usual, like he was Fred Astaire or some other classy guy from a black and white movie. Kurt was smiling, and Puck caught himself wondering whether he had found the food to his taste, whether he'd enjoyed it. Well, he would know the answer to that soon enough, wouldn't he? And his job for tonight wasn't over yet, anyway; there was still more prowess he needed to demonstrate.  
On the previous day, Frédérique had spent all day long preparing raspberry, coffee, pistachio, vanilla and saffron _macarons_. Along with the _éclairs_ , the explosion of colors they created on the dessert table was spectacular. Frédérique was busy arranging the _crèmes brûlées_ on a bare tin table so they could easily be burned one after another, and only registered Puck's presence when Puck also started arranging the small cups by his side. By the time they were finished, the green apple _mille-feuilles_ with pine nuts and blue cheese were being served to the guests.

"They're almost done there," Puck said. "Time for you to shine, Frédo."

"Don't fucking call me zat," the pastry chef grumbled, too focused to really care. "Here, pour ze sugar, I'll get ze torches."

Puck did as he was told while getting acquainted with the charming waitress called "January" who had been assigned to coffee duty at the dessert buffet, only to be  rudely interrupted by Frédérique who tossed a torch at him and told him to "fucking get to work, and save ze flirt for later."

"Tell me again why I don't sack your French ass and hire someone less insolent?" Puck asked as he started on the first cup on his side of the table.

"Because I'm too pretty, zat's why. Unionized, too," Frédérique added on second thought.

"Yeah? Unionize this, bitch."

Puck flipped him the bird, handling the torch with one hand.

"Careful wiz your sleeves," Frédérique warned.

"I have this, kid, trust me."

"I know, but I also saw your expression when you do _flambés_ \-- remember zat contract in San Francisco?" Frédérique snickered. "You just love to put fire to stuff, don't you?"

It was meant as a joke, of course, nevertheless Puck paused to consider.

He had looked up "pyromania" when he was still a teenager, a word that had managed to filter through the buzzing sound that used to fill his head whenever he was stuck in Miss Pillsbury's office and the skittish wide-eyed woman would lecture him about this and that. He'd never listened; he automatically tuned out after the inevitable "I'm here to help you, Noah." She had handed him a pamphlet that day, one that read: "So you like to burn things down?" That was how he got the spelling right.

His friend Wikipedia had said, "A type of impulse control disorder, pyromania is an impulse to deliberately start fires to relieve tension and typically includes feelings of gratification or relief afterward."

And maybe there was some truth in that. Maybe there was a little of that involved when he first started at the _Visconti_ 's kitchen, maybe there was something about him and fire. Destruction in general too, he supposed. And then along came Mr Trevino, who showed him through cooking that destruction could be more than that; it could go further, become art, and bring something to the world. Mr Trevino made him understand that the principle of cooking was turning something into something else. Into something _more_. How cool was that? The sweetest part was that Puck saw nothing boring or repetitive in it, which suited his paper-thin attention span just fine. His fascination for fire, the "relief" and "gratification" he felt after destroying things couldn't be compared to the exhilaration of perpetrating the act of destruction and then arriving at the most important part, the one that had never been part of the equation before: creation. Or re-creation, for that matter. Two faces of the same coin. The yang to his yin. Wax on, wax off. Or something.

Had he not met Mr Trevino, Puck might've turned out very badly indeed. He might've ended up burning the whole of Lima down. The cycle would have stopped for him at "destruction" and nothing else, burn, burn, burn, until there was nothing left, no one else to walk away from him again. Fire helped settle things, come to terms with the bad stuff that clawed at his guts; it made everything final. But cooking... transformed. And made some things meaningful again.

He stopped the torch and handed a lavender-flavored _crème brûlée_ to a guest.

Slowly the staff were taking away some of the tables and re-arranging others, as discreetly as possible, while the guests were attending to their caffeine and sugar fix. A grand piano was brought into the ballroom and when Aurélien led Kurt to it, silence slowly descended upon the crowd.

"Dear family, dear friends," Aurélien started, loud and clear. "Evan and I are most honored and pleased to have you here tonight to celebrate our official engagement."

A small round of applause, a few camera flashes here and there.

"Well," he continued with a smile, "I must tell you that our first, less official engagement was conducted in Evan's apartment a few months ago, with me in socks because the neat freak wouldn't let me wear shoes on his precious carpet, and a completely surprised Evan coming out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. To be honest, when I actually proposed, the first answer I got was toothpaste foam all over my face."

Delighted laughs rang out at the cute anecdote. Kurt lowered his head modestly, cheeks flushed, looking a little embarrassed.

"So, tonight, thank you for helping me making amends for that awkward moment in Evan's life, and turning it into a wonderful party, with exceptional people."

Yet another round of applause.

"Evan also chose this special night to make a very important announcement. Evan, if you will."

Aurélien retreated a few steps, leaving Kurt in the center of attention. Kurt seemed slightly hesitant for a moment, then he lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders.

"Being an actor doesn't necessarily make you good at giving speeches," he said, even louder and clearer than his fiancé. "So I will make this short. I wanted..." There was that shadow of hesitation again, but it vanished even quicker. "I wanted to announce tonight my decision to retire from the stage. The recital that I'm about to give you now will be my very last public performance."

Shocked gasps all across the ballroom, camera flashes suddenly crackling everywhere. Puck got careless and knocked one _crème brûlée_ over lovely January's shoes, who was so caught up in the unexpected drama anyway, just like everybody else, that she barely noticed. It seemed the only one who wasn't paying any attention to what was going on was Frédérique, who was cheerfully humming some stupid French pop song as he was putting some order in the scattered _éclairs_ on the platters.

"Please, please." Kurt raised his hands in the air, demanding quiet so he could continue. "It is entirely my decision, and I want you to know that my wedding to Aurélien didn't provoke it. I would say the desire to leave the lights of Broadway behind me had simply been confirmed by this occasion. My wedding certainly helped me make up my mind, but that's all. I understand that this must come as a shock to all of you, but trust me when I say that I've been toying with the idea for quite some time, and for me, now, with you, this is the perfect moment to put an end to a wonderful career, that brought me many joys and successes, and absolutely everything I could wish for as an artist. And I am very grateful for all I've received, but now is the time for me to turn this particular page of my life, and move on to another."

He stopped a moment to let his words sink in, his blue gaze embracing the audience with confidence, and then he continued:

"Of course, I will explain myself in further detail during a press conference that will be held very soon; but for now...I just want to offer you tonight, dear guests, and especially my amazing fiancé, this last recital, as a... as a thank you."

His voice faltered a little on the last words, Aurélien stepped back in, took Kurt in his arms, and Kurt cuddled against him. Perfect timing; it looked like a dance, choreographed down to the second. Then Kurt parted from his fiancé with handsomely dewy eyes, and took his place in front of the piano as the crowd broke into thunders of clapping, that slowly died after the first few notes resonated.

 _Je rêve son visage je décline son corps  
Et puis je l'imagine habitant mon décor  
J'aurais tant à lui dire si j'avais su parler  
Comment lui faire lire au fond de mes pensées?_

Puck blinked. He thought he knew the song. Where did he hear it? Frédérique provided him with an answer when he muttered under his breath, "Oh my fucking god. Céline fucking Dion. _Alors ça, c'est le pompon._ Fucking kill me, will you?"

 _Mais comment font ces autres à qui tout réussit?  
Qu'on me dise mes fautes mes chimères aussi  
Moi j'offrirais mon âme, mon coeur et tout mon temps  
Mais j'ai beau tout donner, tout n'est pas suffisant_

It was quite nice, in fact. Céline Dion had never been Puck's thing, and never will be, but this particular song fitted Kurt's voice beautifully, Puck had to admit.  
The only problem was that Aurélien had remained standing by the piano, pretending to really listen to the lyrics as if they were some kind of sacred gospel and gazing with enamored eyes into Kurt's own.

 _S'il suffisait qu'on s'aime, s'il suffisait d'aimer  
Je ferais de ce monde un rêve, une éternité_

The whole scene played out horribly cheesy and camp, although the audience didn't seem to think so as the applause was loud as ever by the end of the song, especially when Kurt took Aurélien's extended hand in his. They remained like this for a while, merely staring at each other, hand in hand, and as the clapping faded, Kurt let go of Aurélien's hand to play the piano intro to Leonard Cohen's _Dance me to the end of love_.

His voice was pure and soft, although still laced with intensity as he sang the first verse. Puck found himself quite unnerved when Kurt stared across the room, looking at no one in particular, and felt like Kurt's baby blues had halted on him and no one else. Just a wrong impression, because the only one Kurt really looked at was Charming, still hanging by the piano and looking utterly useless. When Kurt attacked the second verse, a few people in the crowd -- no doubt a little too imbibed with champagne -- cheered at the blatant sensuality of the lyrics.

 _Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone  
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon  
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of_

 _Dance me to the end of love_

At some point during the piano solo, Aurélien leaned in to steal a quick kiss from Kurt's lips, and one or two notes slipped from Kurt's fingers. The singer recovered quickly.

 _Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove_

 _Dance me to the end of love_

Puck was starting to consider he wasn't paid enough to endure this. In fact, there just wasn't enough money in the world to compensate for this kind of offense to his good taste. There was only so much campiness he could face, and this took the fucking cake, no pun intended. He made sure Frédérique didn't need his help with the buffet anymore and walked out of the ballroom, then decided to get out of the house altogether for a bit of fresh air. He found a back door that led to some sort of paved backyard where a few cars were parked. The outside was still, and quiet, the music from the house barely audible. Just what he needed. As he was just starting to unwind a little, Puck was shocked and barely suppressed a scream that would have no doubt sounded very girly when a bit of night suddenly detached itself from the darkness and came to bump against his leg. Recovering from his surprise, Puck could finally make out, with the help of the light coming through the open door, the shape a dog, a big black Labrador Retriever which started nudging at Puck's leg with its nose.

"Hey there Padfoot," Puck said, tentatively patting the beast's silky head after it directed soulful eyes at him, obviously expecting something. "Haven't seen you anywhere around here before. Where the fuck have they been keeping you?"

The dog didn't answer, so Puck settled for sitting down on the steps where he was standing. Laying its big body beside him, the dog followed. Puck didn't know how much time passed like that, with his fingers scratching behind the dog's ears to the animal's utter contentment, and him gazing into the squares of yellow light the windows projected on the pavement, absently thinking about a pet turtle he used to have in eighth grade.

"Keeping Ulysses company?" A voice said behind him.

The dog stood back up in one blink, wagging its tail furiously when he saw the newcomer. Puck didn't need to turn around to know who it was. That voice was unmistakable.

"That his name?" Puck asked.

"Yes; after James Joyce's novel, in fact. Sit, Ulysses," Kurt ordered.

The dog obeyed, letting the endless ribbon of his tongue hang loosely from his mouth. Without warning, Kurt took place on the steps beside Puck, almost causing Puck to jump out of his skin.

"So," Kurt said. "I'll admit it. I'm intrigued."

"So you should be," Puck replied automatically, out of nervousness. "Intrigued by what?" he asked after a short pause while he mentally smacked himself.

"What on earth got into you the day you decided to become a chef?"

Puck gave a short laugh.

"It wasn't a decision I made in just a day, believe me. Won't they be needing you over there?"

"It's okay, I told them I needed to talk to you. About the job tonight."

Puck said nothing and resumed caressing Ulysses' head.

"Is he yours?" He asked after a pause.

"No, he's Aurélien's parents', but it seems he took a liking to me."

"Doesn't surprise me," Puck said without thinking. Then he changed the subject, "Nice recital out there. Didn't know you could sing like that."

"Well it's... It was my job. You didn't even stay until the end," Kurt remarked with no animosity. "May I add, that wasn't very professional of you."

"So, what, am I fired because of that?" Puck asked with defiance.

"Hmm, let's see..." Kurt pretended to think about it for a moment. "I suppose I could very well fire you on that basis, yes, but I have to say, the duck was pretty spectacular."

Puck grinned, tension gradually leaving his shoulders.

"It was, wasn't it," he said, feeling smug.

"And that cold white soup was genius. Loved its sweetness and how fresh it was, absolutely perfect for the season."

"Almond, cucumber and rice milk, it's a killer combination. What did you think of the lobster?" Puck enquired, trying not to let his anxiety show behind the question.

"Was there vanilla in the sauce?"

"Yes."

"I'd say it was... unusual, to say the least. I could taste the vanilla flavor but it didn't bother me; it tasted rather excellent, in fact. I also very much appreciated the three different kinds of beetroot that went with the lobster, the colors on the plate were absolutely gorgeous. I didn't even know yellow beetroot existed."

Nothing about the lobster itself, Puck noted, but there was still a chance that nobody had noticed that it was overcooked.

"You were also right about the -- what was it again? 'Matcha'? Matcha _éclairs_ ," Kurt continued. "I had a taste of every little dessert after the recital, and everything was sublime, especially the chocolate _éclairs_ , like you said, and the matcha ones really made sense with the rest, indeed. Well done."

"I know, Frédérique is an excellent pastry chef. He's very lucky his enormous amount of talent balances out his enormous amount of shitty behavior."

"Well, if tonight's any indication, you're an excellent chef, too," Kurt said softly. "Do tell, how did that happen? No offence, but judging from your potential in high school, you certainly weren't on the right track for a successful career. Or any career at all, for that matter."

That stung a bit, but Puck let it slide. It _was_ perfectly true, after all.

"After graduation," Puck started, "my mom forced me to take a summer job as a dishwasher, at a small Italian restaurant, called the _Visconti,_ owned by a friend of our family whose name was Joseph Trevino."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kurt nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Even though I didn't ask him anything," Puck kept on, "he taught me the basics of cooking. Did you know that all the greatest chefs, and I mean every single one of them, started at the lowest scale in the kitchen hierarchy? Scrubbing the dishes? It's almost compulsory, actually. Because it makes you familiar with the utensils you'll be using. Fuck the American Dream, you know, it doesn't work, not in this day and age. A kitchen is the only place in real life where you can really rise from rags to riches. Paul Bocuse used to do the laundry and tend to the garden at his mentor's house before he was deemed fit to be allowed anywhere near food, did you know that? That's what Mr Trevino told me, too. Said I could become anything I wanted, should I choose that path, if I was humble and willing enough. You know me. My whole life, I've never been humble, nor willing. Didn't matter. Mr Trevino made me believe I could become that person."

Puck paused for a moment, running his hands through Ulysses' shiny fur.

"When I finally manned up after thinking about it for ages, and felt enough confidence in me to tell him I wanted to go to Italy to learn how to cook," Puck said, "his reaction was... downright outrage."

"Why?" Kurt asked, sounding slightly surprised.

"He said to me, 'My boy, I only opened an Italian restaurant because my surname would make it look authentic. But the main reason I chose Italian cuisine is also because I knew I would never be good enough to do justice to French cuisine the way I wanted to. If you need to know anything about food, you must go to France!'. "

Puck allowed himself to laugh a little, remembering the old bachelor's emphatic manners.

"He told me that when he was young, he went on a backpacking trip through Europe. There he went out with a French girl -- or they were just friends with benefits, I didn't really get it when he explained, it sounded kind of complicated. Whatever. The important thing is, she made him taste real French cuisine for the first time in his life when they were together in Paris, and it was an experience that almost brought tears to his eyes when he told me about it. He's the one who convinced my mum I could go there to study at a culinary school. My mum was... completely lost, to say the least. You know... when you've been in Lima all your life, and your children and grandchildren, if you have any, will probably just stay there too, the concept of 'Paris' or 'cuisine' is a little hard to grasp, I think. It's kind of... too exotic."

He knew Kurt fully understood; except that the boy had already been a Martian amongst the misunderstanding Earthlings and he'd already known that all he had to do was to go back to his home planet for his life to be normal again. Puck, on the other hand, had been an Earthling who dreamed himself a Martian.

"Anyway," Puck continued, "I still don't know how, but he managed to convince her to finance part of my studies, while he paid for the most part. Said I could pay him back when I would become a famous chef."

He stopped caressing the dog, which went to Kurt to beg for some more love, and Puck pressed his palms together between his knees, looking down at his feet.

"In the end, I couldn't. He died of stomach cancer while I was finishing my studies in Lyon. To this day, even though I'm giving the money to a charity he supported, I feel like I still haven't found the right way to thank him, for the chance he gave me."

He let the silence stretch a little, then concluded, shrugging, "And that's how I became a chef. I learned humility. I learned that no matter how hard you tried, you still had to try harder. And now here I am, working for you. Your turn."

Kurt looked baffled.

"What? My turn to what?"

"I told you my sob story, now I need a little something in return."

"I wasn't aware of such an arrangement."

"Come on, Kurt, be a good sport. At least answer one of my questions."

"Which one?" said Kurt, withdrawing a little, his body language screaming mistrust.

"What does the 'J' stand for?"

After a brief moment of puzzlement, Kurt laughed genuinely, throwing his head back.

"You had me worried for a moment there," he said, smiling. "I can't answer that, though. It's part of my whole stage persona. I just can't tell."

A sudden realization hit Puck. It had been nagging at him from the moment he had entered the ballroom to join Frédérique. He had known something was off but obviously his mind had been occupied with other stuff and he hadn't been able to tell. Before he could stop himself, he said softly, "I didn't see your father anywhere in there."

He didn't look, but he could almost feel the sudden and violent tension coursing through Kurt's body, beside his. When Kurt spoke again, he was back to full-on Ice Queen mode.

"Not that it's any of your concern, but... no, my father doesn't know about all this."

Puck noted the deliberate vagueness, and wondered what "all this" implied exactly, but didn't comment on it. Instead, he said, "So that's the reason behind the stage name. Am I right?"

From Kurt's expression, Puck knew he was spot on. Kurt abruptly stood up, causing Ulysses to fumble down the steps in surprise.

"It doesn't matter," Kurt said as he was heading back inside the house, becoming only a voice behind Puck's back, "I only came to tell you that your hiring was confirmed. Congratulations to you and your team, the job was brilliantly executed. Just one last thing you need to know, though, so that you don't repeat the same mistake in the future..."

Puck kept silent and braced himself, because he could guess what was coming next.

"That lobster was overdone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist for this fic (on Youtube), and you'll find there some of the songs in this part (the Celine Dion one too, OMG), you may check it out: <http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=1848AC02C2B19C75>


	3. Saisir

The fuck if Puck knows how they've come to this. Never in a million years would he have imagined how much more fucked-up this situation could be. So far, everything had been going so great, too... up until the sleeping with Kurt bit. Now that was stupid, he'll concede, but Aurélien can't possibly know about it, now, can he? So why this whole giant mess, all of a sudden? Fuck.

Gill looks utterly lost and keeps searching Puck's face with her eyes, hoping he'll snap out of his speechlessness to finally take things in charge and start giving out instructions. Beatrix may or may not be having a panic attack somewhere inside the house, away from her employers' eyes. Kurt...

He wants to turn Kurt around so he can see his expression. All he sees is his tense back, arms brought up, suggesting Kurt may be hugging himself right now, or maybe just crossing his arms, pretending he doesn't care at all, watching his life, all his carefully laid-out little plans crumble in front of him, with the placidity of a statue.   
Puck feels a pull, the strange need to reassure him, to tell him it's going to be all right. Except he isn't entitled to do that, not in front of an already thoroughly pissed-off Aurélien, anyway. Plus (as Kurt would agree, would even insist on it), what they did doesn't give Puck the right to take Kurt in his arms and kiss the pain away. It doesn't give Puck any rights at all, really.

Even if they had the possibility to go back in time, he wouldn't know how to fix this disaster.

A day is all it took for everything to come crashing down.

*******

Two park rangers were standing waiting as Puck and his team came out of their helicopter.  
("By helicopter," Puck had repeated. "Seriously?"  
"No motorized vehicles allowed on the park trails, which leaves us nothing but air transportation," Aurélien had replied, speaking rapidly, like a machine gun, ra-ta-ta-tat. "We'll be following the White Trail, which is a difficult path, so you won't be able to carry your equipment to the place where we'll be having lunch. Ergo, unless you have a better idea, by helicopter it is.")

The man, tall, brown-haired, fit, introduced himself as Tom, and the plump forty-something blonde beside him was Layla. They didn't seem too pleased to see them and Puck thought he might understand why; no-one could have imagined some rich, spoiled shithead would be eccentric and bratty to the point of exploiting a loophole in the park regulations and use two fucking helicopters for the sake of a simple picnic in the mountains. Add a little pressure from daddy's influence, and voilà! Six chefs with their equipment dropped of by air taxi to prepare lunch on the Chest of the Sleeping Giant, away from the official picnic areas that the plebs were usually content to use, a dozen noisy and obnoxious Ivy League wankers going on a hike with the hosting couple, and two pissed-off rangers specially dispatched to chaperone the mountain-climbing party and make sure the lamb that the chefs wanted to roast over the embers wouldn't set fire to the whole park.

In all honesty, Puck and his brigade weren't exactly trained for that kind of extreme set-up, and were he paranoid, he could have taken it as a deliberate attempt at sabotage. Except now that Puck, to his great displeasure, was starting to know the guy, he could testify Aurélien Marlowe was random enough come up with a plan like that without meaning anything to it: he'd wanted to do it just to show he could.

He wasn't completely right in the head, Puck could tell. It was subtle, and maybe Kurt and none of the others around him could see it, but it was there nevertheless; Puck recognized some of the symptoms Olivier used to display, only at a higher level. Most of the time, though, unlike Olivier, Aurélien could be trusted to behave properly around people, more or less. But the arrival of new guests, whom Aurélien knew from Yale, had him acting weirder than usual, like he was constantly verging on being hysterical.

As long as it didn't interfere with his job, Puck had decided it wasn't his problem. It was true that he and Kurt were getting along better since the engagement party, but he was a chef, not a psychiatrist: that would become Kurt's job after he married Aurélien. Until then, Puck would only have to fulfil his share of the contract and when they were done, he would never have to see the couple again.

The chefs had decided to arrive early because the lamb had to be cooked very, very slowly. Cissy and Gill were in charge of starting the fire under the watch of the two rangers, while Puck, Jeoff and Anthony were laying out the kitchen instruments and utensils they'd be needing on folding tables brought by the second helicopter. Additional tables and chairs were put up for the picnickers, who of course had to eat in the open air sitting on a chair, on proper plates and with proper cutlery; again, no matter what the plebs' picnic customs were, Aurélien and his posse obviously couldn't abide to sit their asses on the ground and eat finger food.

In no time, the improvised kitchen and picnic area were all set. The only technical problem the chefs had to face was putting back together the pieces of the Weber grill they'd brought along to roast the mini vegetables, but the intervention of their female grill experts quickly fixed that, after a few jokes about the male chefs tragically losing their masculine attributes.

Frédérique hadn't made a single move to help them, sulking as he was after the helicopter ride – Frédérique was afraid of heights, which also made him nauseous, and he was holding Puck personally responsible for his misery. He was usually fine with planes because he could knock himself unconscious with sleeping pills, but with a ride so short he'd had no choice but to suffer through it. He was sitting on the precious cooler boxes containing his latest creations, a few feet away from the comings and goings, looking too pale and too sick to be really angry.

Open-air, live-fire cooking was definitely a challenge, but the chefs were ready to embrace it. They'd jumped through many hurdles since the engagement party dinner: Kurt's press conference cocktail (Anthony's petits fours stole the show that time), Senator Marlowe's official brunch (Puck had had a trick up his sleeve for that one: zucchini and ginger jam, as well as a green tomato and cinnamon jam he had tasted many years ago at Paris's annual agricultural fair which he'd reproduced; along with his scones, it was a winning three-pointer), not to mention the more intimate and less official dinners and lunches they'd also had to cater for. So this picnic, as extravagant as it might be, had no reason not to be a success too.

The menu this time was somewhat simpler; squash and garlic flowers tempura, lamb shoulder with spring herbs cooked over the campfire, grill-roasted mini-vegetables and cauliflower couscous, and for dessert, apricot tarts and Frédérique's killer honey ice-cream sprinkled with caramel powder. The tarts had Frédérique's special twist to them, too: ground pistacchio in the pie dough, which added texture and a smooth nutty taste, which balanced the touch of acidity in the apricots.

The dessert constituted the only infringement upon Kurt's "seasonal and sustainable" request, since apricots were a summer fruit and June had barely even started, but they'd strictly been playing by the rules up until then, so Puck figured Kurt might forgive them for this little stretch, especially after he'd tasted the tarts. Aurélien did bitch about the tempura when they planned the menu, though, saying it was not typically French; Puck quickly shut him up by pointing out that vegetable flowers dipped in batter and fried were a hundred percent traditional in France – the tempura batter simply made them lighter and crispier than the traditional French crepe-style batter, nothing to put anyone's panties in a twist. He could feel Aurélien ready to throw a fit at that point, and he suspected Kurt's subtle influence in the fact that Charming finally gave in without too much of a scene.

As they were waiting for the hikers to arrive, the chefs kept busy with no particular rush. The sun was slowly rising to its zenith, shedding a pure, bright light on the mountain. As it gradually got higher, the light got harsher, forcing Puck to don his aviator sunglasses. Never missing an occasion for insolence, Gill started quoting a few famous lines from Pitch Black and The Chronicles of Riddick, causing Frédérique, still hunched on top of his cooler boxes, to snigger feebly. The whole brigade had watched the two movies at the three male chefs' house the night before, while eating pizza – not even homemade; it had been vile, frozen stuff, but they hadn't cared one bit. It had felt like a night off, and all in all, it had been a pretty good idea (Jeoff's, against all odds: the sauté cook was a total action movie geek and he had been positively outraged when the majority of the brigade admitted they'd never seen any of the Riddick movies).

As far as they were concerned, and thanks to the relaxing evening they'd had with Vin Diesel, the chefs were already having a good day. The temperature was not exactly warm but not cold either, just fresh and crisp enough to be called "invigorating". Aurélien, the lucky bastard, would actually get ideal weather for his stupid picnic – it seemed divine retribution was an overrated concept after all. The meat was roasting nice and slow, and Puck had made amends with Tom and Layla by sharing a few beers with the two rangers, along with Anthony. (Jeoff and Cissy didn't like alcohol, and Frédérique was feeling a bit better by then, but still glowered when Puck innocently offered him a bottle. For some reason, Gill refused too, although she usually wasn't one to turn down booze.) The atmosphere was good, like a little field trip of their own. It almost felt like a rude interruption when the guests finally appeared, and the fact that they'd arrived earlier than expected was a little annoying, since the chefs weren't ready to serve.

At the head of the pack was Aurélien, and Puck realized that Kurt had fallen a bit behind the group, which was odd: usually when he was in Kurt's presence, Aurélien rarely stood further than three steps away. Puck's mind quickly put that observation aside and went back to the main problem at hand: the food. The guests were looking hungry after their walk, and the meat was still roasting, so he gave orders to start the tempura, in order to partially fill their stomachs and keep them waiting. There would be a substantial gap in time between the entrée and the main dish, but it couldn't be helped; at least they wouldn't be dying of hunger. Puck left managing the front-of-house to Gill and Anthony, and as they served the dishes and explained to each table how to use the ponzu sauce that went with the tempura, Puck's attention went back to Kurt. He couldn't help but notice something was off in Kurt's interaction with Aurélien's friends; it was almost imperceptible, the way Kurt seemed left out of most conversations. He would open his mouth now and then, say something, smile, nod, but there was no sustained exchange with anyone around him, no dialogue per se.

When all the tempura disappeared, alcohol kept being poured in quantities that seemed endless, to the chefs' relief: the drunker the guests got, the less they were likely to complain about the tardiness of the main dish.

Kurt didn't drink, a fact that seemed to reinforce his isolation even further. At some point, he caught Puck looking at him and left his table to join the chef behind the Weber grill he was trying to light up.

"Hey," Puck said when Kurt was beside him. "How was the hike?"

"It was okay, I guess," Kurt replied airily, then his face broke into a smile as he changed the subject. "What's with the Riddick look?" .

"Oh no, not you too," he grumbled, rolling his eyes behind the tinted glasses, then paused. "Wait... you actually know who Riddick is?"

"What, I'm too gay to have seen Pitch Black, is that what you're trying to say?"

"Whoa, whoa, easy. Not trying to say anything. Dude, why so bitchy all of a sudden? I thought you and I were cool."

Kurt closed his eyes and took a breath.

"Forget that," he said, suddenly looking younger. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little..."

"It's okay, I get it. Never mind. Want a beer?"

"Thanks, but no. I'm not convinced that high altitude and alcohol mix together well. How's the cooking going?"

"Well, the lamb's coming along, and it shouldn't be too long before we serve. And thanks to the mix of alcohol and high altitude –" Puck pointed at the inebriated guests with his chin "– nobody's noticed that it's not on their plates yet."

From the corner of his eye, he caught a fleeting expression on Kurt's face, when he looked where Puck was pointing. Something that looked a lot like disgust.

"Is the lamb kosher?" Kurt asked out of the blue, the question incongruous enough for Puck to cock an eyebrow at him.

"I... dunno. Maybe. You didn't tell me you had Jews among your guests, so I didn't..."

"Oh, no, none of them is. I was just curious about you."

"You mean, if I'm okay with handling non-kosher meat in my cooking? Wouldn't be worth shit as a chef of French cuisine if I did take Kashrut seriously, would I? It'd be like a supermodel who refused to pose naked no matter what."

"I don't know. You could have... principles, and stick to them no matter what."

Puck didn't answer right away; he waited for the flame to catch in the coals, then shrugged.

"I do have principles; I don't have to be a bigot to be able to afford them. Also, have you ever tasted authentic Jewish food, I mean, the strict thing? It's terrible. Like you would have hired me if I dared serve you any of that."

Kurt laughed a little, conceding a point.

"Excuse me for asking, but you did date the Fashion Police's most wanted criminal, Miss Rachel Berry, in high school, and the word got around that you only did it because she was Jewish, too. It sounded pretty extreme to me at the time, even if now you don't seem too big on religion anymore."

Puck grimaced.

"I thought we weren't suppose to mention all the stupid shit I did as a kid."

"I don't remember agreeing to anything of the sort."

"Anyway," Puck continued, ignoring him, "when you're studying cooking in France, you're not allowed to say you won't cook and taste pork products because of a petty excuse like 'religion'. Man, my teachers would've cut me. Some of the chefs there... believe me, they could make a grown man cry."

He actually felt a shiver remembering Chef Boisserie's memorable 30-minutes long rant about how Puck was a failure as a chef and worth less than garbage, just because he couldn't get the hand-turn and the timing right, the first time he ever made poached eggs.

"Did they manage to make you?" Kurt asked with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Who do you think you're talking to? I'm badass, man."

Kurt's mouth formed a perfect "o" of surprise.

"Oh my gosh, they did, didn't they?"

"Yeah, okay, it's because there was this chef once... Hey, stop laughing, Kurt, I'm serious. You wouldn't have believed that guy's level of bitchiness; leagues over yours, you'd look downright cuddly next to him."

"Oh, that bad, huh."

"Yeah. But the teachers weren't the worst part, actually. Their job was to kick our asses, after all. It was the other students that made it harder than necessary for me. It's bad enough when you're alone in a foreign country, you barely speak the language and you're always broke – you really don't need people calling you 'McDonald's' and saying stuff like 'just put ketchup and barbecue sauce on everything to make it taste better, what do your people know about cuisine anyway?' when you're trying your hardest on top of that."

He didn't look at Kurt, pretending to concentrate on the flames, which was never hard to do, but he still heard shock in the silence that followed.

"So what you're telling me is you've been... bullied," Kurt said slowly, as if trying to wrap his head around the idea.

"Karma's a bitch, right?" Puck snorted. "If it was still high school, I guess I could've thrown some punches. Only there, it wasn't my turf. It was just words, but... Never really knew how to defend myself against those," he added with a self-deprecating smile, then lifted his eyes to look right at Kurt when he said: "I guess I know a little how you felt."

"Zis fucking guy," said a cheerful voice behind them. "Every time I leave him alone for two fucking seconds, when I come back I catch him trying to get into somebody's pants instead of doing his fucking work. I wonder how he even made it as a chef. My guess is, must have flirted his way to ze top, no? Ze lamb is ready, chef, and we," said Frédérique as he suddenly popped by Puck's side and bowed down with a flourish, "are awaiting your orders."

"Right," Kurt said in a voice so cold Puck could picture it like in a comic book, with icicles forming down his speech bubble. "I better go back to our guests. If you'll excuse me."

Puck cast a dirty look at the French pastry chef, who managed to look perfectly innocent as he cried, "What?"

*****

At the end of the meal, Kurt and Aurélien got into a heated conversation that ended up as a fight. Kurt screaming "you'll break your fucking neck! Are you out of your mind?" had the chefs and the rangers, who had been sitting down in a circle a little further away to eat their own lunch, stop all conversation and stare. Strangely enough, the other guests didn't seem to pay it much attention as they were gathering their stuff for the return walk. Either because they were too drunk to care or... maybe because they'd been expecting this, Puck mused. Tom got up with a resigned sigh, "I have the feeling I need to go see what this is about. Be right back."

When Tom walked up to the couple, inquiring what the problem was, Aurélien turned briskly and started talking very rudely to the ranger, who at first tried to calm the brat down, before his own tone of voice transformed into barely-restrained anger. Kurt explained something to Tom that seemed to make things worse; where they were sitting, the chefs couldn't exactly make out the words, but Puck saw Tom's stance go more and more rigid as the conversation went. The ranger kept raising his hands in front of his chest in a placating gesture as he explained something, then crossing them as a sign of prohibition, with vehement chin movements from left to right, but Aurélien was having none of it. He made menacing gestures with his index finger right under Tom's nose, speaking in a low voice that made him sound more dangerous than when he was shouting, then he looked like he expected an answer from Tom. The ranger held Aurélien's stare for a few seconds, then lowered his head and turned to march back to the chefs and his colleague, literally steaming with rage on his way. Kurt followed right after, hugging himself and looking very upset as he walked quickly behind the ranger.

"Layla," Tom barked to the blonde. "Come with me. We have a problem. Apparently, the pr... Mr, Marlowe wishes to go bouldering on the Chin with his friends."

"He what, now?!" Layla exclaimed, immediately getting on her feet.

"I know," Tom said with a sour look on his face. "There's no stopping him, and believe me when I say I tried. The little f... he's gonna do it anyway. Just contact HQ. We have no choice but try and keep all of them as safe as possible, until maybe the cavalry arrives."

Puck got up in turn, "Is there anything I can do?"

Tom took a moment to consider Puck's proposition and what it implied, taking in Puck's height and muscles, but then shook his head, running a hand through his hair in annoyance.

"Thanks man, but we'll handle it, Layla and I. Although... yeah, thanks, anyway."

Puck gave the ranger a short nod, then turned to Kurt who was standing nearby, trembling like a leaf.

"Hey," he said softly, putting a light hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"May I join you?" Kurt asked, looking up from the ground. His eyes were very wide and very blue. "Obviously, I'm not going with them, and I'd like to go back with you when the helicopters come to fetch you, if that's not too much of an inconvenience. In the mean time, is it okay for me to..."

"Sit down," Gill interrupted with a warm smile and a friendly hand gesture. "No need to be so formal around us. Puck was going to get his guitar out to sing a few songs while we're waiting for our ride back. I hope you don't mind a little blood trickling out of your ears. Nah, just kidding, he's not that bad."

Puck took the hint and went to fetch his guitar as Kurt sat down with the rest of the chefs. Aurélien and his friends were departing, accompanied by the rangers, and Kurt purposefully chose to sit with his back to them, not even sparing a look over his shoulder.

"I never knew Puck played the guitar," he told Gill.

"One of my many talents," said Puck, sitting back down. "Chicks loved it, back in Ohio. That, and my pussy-eating skills."

"Ew. Gross." Then Kurt blushed and he quickly turned to Gill. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

"That's okay sweetie," Gill cut in cheerfully. "I know it's not about vaginas, I find him gross too."

Puck snorted as he quickly tuned his instrument. He started out with “Scar Tissue,” which he considered a classic for afternoons like these, softly crooning "with the birds I'll share this lonely view". “Your Arms Around Me” by Jens Lekman came naturally afterwards, another favourite of his, although the high notes of the chorus were a bitch for his range. At the end of the song, Frédérique complained that Puck was trying to put them all to sleep with his ballads, so Puck retaliated by singing Noir Désir's “L'Homme Pressé.” He rapped the verses in French almost as fast as the original singer, which made Kurt wide-eyed with astonishment. Puck secretly pleased at Kurt's reaction, even though he still stumbled upon a few words here and there. Frédérique joined him during the chorus, shouting more than singing, "Qui veut de moi et des miettes de mon cerveau?". Then Puck decided to keep on with quick-paced songs, and when they recognized the intro to U2's “Desire,” the girls squealed, as they were huge fans of the band – one of the many common points they'd bonded over when they were working in Florida. Puck aced it, and followed with “Havana Affair” for Anthony, who was more of a Ramones fan. From bits and pieces he'd gathered from Anthony's anecdotes, Puck knew the British cook had lived quite a dissipated youth before becoming the respectable-looking man he was today, but his love of punk rock was still going strong. After that, although he hadn't really rehearsed it before, Puck tried his hand at a “Tainted Love”/“You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)” mash-up, which came out pretty decent. However, Kurt still had some valid remarks to help improve it a little and he shared them with Puck once the song was over. Next came Johnny Cash's “Jackson;” to Puck's surprise, Kurt stepped in unannounced as he was about to skip June Carter's part. Their voices blended together beautifully, and Puck was even more surprised to find out he was enjoying himself singing with Kurt. The other chefs broke into enthusiastic applause when Puck stopped playing.

"So," Puck said to Kurt. "Far be it from me to imply anything, but... you know Riddick, you know your Johnny Cash... What the hell?"

"Please," Kurt replied with a roll of his eyes. "I saw Walk The Line just like everybody else and I simply bought the soundtrack. I mean, Joaquin Phoenix? Hot!"

"True enough," Puck conceded good-naturedly. Kurt threw him the same strange, unsettled look he'd had a few days ago in the Marlowes' kitchen, when Puck had admitted having more experience in the gay area than Kurt himself.

"Sing something else together," Cissy asked. "It's nice."

"Agreed," Gill chirped.

"Okay, one last song, then," Puck said. "Only, no show tunes."

"Damn," Kurt said. "That narrows my choice down to almost nothing. Kidding," he added when he saw Puck's eyebrows rising.

"Coldplay?"

"Oh, no," moaned Frédérique, dramatically dropping his forehead on his knees. "Now you want to put us to sleep again."

"Shut up, Frédo," Puck said. "So?"

"Which song?" Kurt asked.

"'In My Place?'"

Kurt giggled at that.

"You wish. A song with a message, how corny of you. You want to tell me something?"

"Maybe I do," Puck smirked.

"Okay, no. And not 'Trouble' either. How about, er... Do you know 'Swallowed in the Sea?'"

"Yeah, I think I do. Give me a minute to remember how the chords go..." Puck mouthed them silently, eyes staring into nothing for a minute, then, "Okay, we should be good to go."

As soon as they started singing, Puck realized it was a bad idea. The song didn't particularly describe anything he and Kurt had been through, but on some level, it felt too... intimate. Although he had to admit some of the lyrics did fit. Singing "I can only blame myself, you can only blame me", their eyes locked somehow, and Puck held Kurt's stare instead of looking away, held it until the very last lines:

You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea  
Yeah, you belong with me, not swallowed in the sea

As the last notes of the guitar died out, there was no applause, only an appreciative silence amongst the chefs, which Gill was the first to break.

"It's a shame, though," she said thoughtfully, addressing Kurt. "That you won't be performing as a singer anymore. Are you really sure about that? It's so sad!"

Puck made a mental note to remind Gill to stop putting her big foot in her mouth so much when he saw Kurt's face shut down and heard him say, noncommittally, "I suppose so. But I had to make a choice. We all have to at some point in life, don't we?"

After that, the ex-singer didn't utter another word.

*************

A few hours later, Puck was standing in the pantry of the Marlowes' kitchen, taking inventory. It was a petty, boring task, but unavoidable. He usually did it with Gill, but he gave her permission to bail out this time. After the picnic, she had looked like she was about to pass out from exhaustion. Puck wondered if she knew she was pregnant, but then again, she'd refused to drink the alcohol, so she had to know. He typed on his smart phone, noting a few missing items they would have to purchase the following day, then realized he was punching the keys down harder than necessary. He thought he knew why she hadn't told him, and found he was immensely irritated by that. He'd been aware Gill had been dating the same guy for quite some time now, though Puck had never actually met him, but he wasn't as inept as his sous-chef thought he was. He could conceive that something of this nature was bound to happen at some point; why Gill would coddle him through the announcement of her leaving the team was beyond him.

But it was possible that she wasn't telling him because she thought he had issues with babies and pregnancy in general. Good God. He'd been an idiot to tell her about Quinn. It wasn't like he was traumatized, for fuck's sake! Why did women always have to make such a big deal out of procreation and what was generally going on inside their lady parts? Last he checked, spawning heirs wasn't their only job anymore. Why couldn't they move the fuck on? He did, at any rate.

He now thought of it as a sorry mistake, one of many that belonged to another time, another Puck. He didn't have regrets, not exactly. Puck had respected Quinn's decision to keep the baby; he'd let her lie to Finn, Puck's best friend at the time, let her manipulate Finn and make him believe he was the real father.

Sometimes he did wonder how Finn and Quinn were doing nowadays, whether they were still together and taking good care of the baby. He also wondered if she'd ever told Finn the truth. Probably not. She'd sworn she'd take the secret to her grave, and Puck believed it, as steadily as he believed in the rising sun. Quinn had always had that kind of strength in her, a core made of steel, venom and determination, behind the teary doe eyes and soft quivering lips. She'd laughed in Puck's face when he said he wanted to be responsible and a good father to their child.

He hadn't been angry at her. The bulk of his anger had been directed at Finn ̵ mainly because Finn had been dumb enough to believe Quinn and swallow her bullshit whole. It had driven Puck mad. Sometimes he'd wanted to burst and shout out the truth in his friend's stupid face, to make him realize what was so blatant, right under his fucking nose, Can't you see what a fool we're making of you? Can't you see us lying to you?

Maybe the truth was that this dirty little secret was too heavy for Puck to bear. It was then that Puck and Finn's friendship had begun to slowly fester and deteriorate ̵ Puck because of his bitterness, and Finn because of his fatherly duties that transformed him into a grown-up, with worries that didn't belong in high school and that he couldn't really share with Puck.

On the plane to Paris, Puck had made the decision to leave it all behind, once and for all. And his life in Paris had been enough of a bitch to let him keep that promise to himself without too much effort.

The French capital wasn't a very forgiving city. And as if things weren't hard enough for him at that time, life there wasn't cheap, either. At the end of his first year, as Puck was seriously starting to run out of money despite Mr Trevino's and his mom's financial help, he heard about a quick way for students like him to make lots of cash: grape harvesting in the south of France. The job only lasted a few weeks and apparently required a lot of physical endurance, but was extremely well-paid. Because it started right after the summer holidays and ended just before the beginning of the university year, it appealed to a lot of international students. That's where Puck met Gill, in a small vineyard near Bordeaux. She used to be even scrawnier, with longer, bushy fire-colored hair that she wore in an unkempt bun hanging like a weird bird's nest over her nape. She was the first American he'd run into in over a year, and he was incredibly grateful and relieved to be finally able to speak in his own language. They bonded quickly, and while they were picking grapes, she told Puck about her French grandfather on her mother's side, whom she called Pépi, short for Pépé Pierre.

Pépi had been a real gourmet, and he'd tried to pass on his love of good food to his only grandchild, who had unfortunately been too young at the time to grasp the subtleties of haute cuisine. On the occasion of one his 70th birthday, Gill's parents had decided to offer Pépi a meal for two at Paul Bocuse's restaurant, undeniably one of the best in the world, and the old man had chosen seven-year-old Gill to accompany him. The little girl had seen her grandfather deeply moved by the food on his plate, savoring each bite like a renewed miracle, while she'd picked at hers, decidedly not getting what was so fabulous about it. He had smiled gently at her, and assured her that some day, she would. That day, little Gill had sensed that she had failed some test, even though her beloved grandfather had never let his disappointment show in any way.

As a consequence, many years after Pépi passed away and after Gill and her family moved back to America, where the young girl had spent her adolescence, Gill had made a plan: she would come back to France and taste Paul Bocuse's cuisine again. She'd decided the money she gathered from the grape harvesting would be invested in that one, single, very expensive meal, and then she would finally know whether she could understand haute cuisine or not, whether her grandfather's prophecy had been right. Puck liked her story, and since he was at a crossroads at that particular point of his life, he told her that, if she didn't mind, he wanted in. His studies in Paris were depressing him deeply and he'd started to have doubts about his vocation as a chef; he thought maybe he could find inspiration in that meal too. Gill gracefully accepted him as a companion in her little odyssey, and it was settled.

Soon after the harvesting job was done, they rented a shared hotel room in Lyon and made reservations for a table at Le Bocuse. The night before the day of The Meal had felt almost religious to both of them, like a wake of sorts.

"What if," Gill had whispered to Puck, as if afraid some malicious god would hear them and thwart their plans, "it's not all that? What if it's just food, and nothing more? What if I still don't get it? What if you can't find your answer either?"

"Well then," Puck had whispered back, "I guess you'll just have to somehow let your grandfather know he'd been wrong, and then you'll have to live with that. As for me, I guess I'll have to go back to America and find some other goal in life. Maybe become a plumber. Like Mario."

"Thanks for nothing, jackass. That's really not helping," Gill had grumbled, turning to her side, and Puck had smiled in the dark, and they'd fallen asleep.

Puck had to admit, they got more than a little concerned when they approached the fugly building in Collonges that looked like some kind of cross between a manor and a circus tent, but the inside was okay, if still a little gaudy.

When the dishes arrived, and when they tasted their first few bites of food, Puck and Gill were so nervous that they couldn't speak. Their stomachs were knotted with fear and they couldn't appreciate the food, so it grew worse, tension and fear spinning out of control in a vicious circle. They kept throwing each other mortified, desperate looks across the table and still not a word could cross their lips. It was only when the maître d' approached them with concern written all over his face, asking if there was something wrong with the food, that they realized how ridiculous they were being, and both suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. When it died out, miraculously, the tension was also gone. Eventually, they reassured the maître d', and set about finishing their first course in a more peaceful state of mind, trying to enjoy the food for what it was, and not some kind of ultimate metaphor about their future.

And finally, finally, the magic happened. They were starting to get that it could never be "just food."

The dishes were incredibly simple, but executed to perfection; each product was brought to its pinnacle, its very essence.

Puck realized that was it. That was his “way of the samurai,” right there. Not the fancy tricks they were trying to teach him at his school in Paris that masked the flavor instead of bringing it forward. From this single meal, he got a clear vision, like a path laying itself out in his mind, that cooking wasn't about sleight of hand and a bit of razzle-dazzle: it was revealing, getting to the core of things, finding what they were about, what made them what they were, laying emotions bare, undiluted.

It was truth.

He didn't ask Gill what kind of answer she herself found in her food. In fact, they didn't speak much, but it was nothing like the stressed-out silence they'd shared before. They giggled from time to time over their glasses of wine, exchanging approving starry-eyed glances with each new element they tasted on their plate. Sometimes they wordlessly exchanged bites of food to let the other have a taste, and merely nodded in assent when they took the bites to their mouth and savored them.

That night, they had sex. It didn't mean anything; they were just high on what they'd eaten. It was playful and fun, and they both agreed in the morning that it was just a thing of the moment, nothing to it. It might have been the first time that Puck was sincere about remaining "just friends" with a girl he'd slept with.

Puck and his future sous-chef parted ways, then: she wanted to start culinary school back in America, while he made the decision to quit his Parisian school and transfer as soon as possible to the Paul Bocuse Institute in Lyon.

The Institute held a reputation that matched its prestigious founder's, and getting in wasn't easy. After many trials and interviews, Puck was put on a waiting list. That had left him feeling down for quite a while, and he didn't reply to any of the e-mails Gill sent him to tell him to stop moping and that "waiting list" didn't necessarily mean "end of the world." It turned out she was right: by some miracle, the list cleared rapidly, and he finally was in. The day he received his acceptance letter, he celebrated by preparing himself a hamburger topped with seared foie gras, as if to spite the Parisians who used to make fun of his American background. It tasted delicious, like heaven in a bun, if a bit greasy.

Lyon was a fantastic city, with all the advantages of Paris, but without the incredibly rude inhabitants and stressful urban life. It was also ridiculous how comfortable he felt at the Institute, compared to his previous school, mostly because he could speak English if he wanted, and he wasn't the only American anymore. And also because of Olivier.

It started out as a bromance, mingled with a bit of hero-worship on Puck's part. It began like this: one day they'd had to work in pairs, and Puck had been paired with Olivier. As simple as that.

Soon after, neither wanted to work with anybody else. They were always found together. Olivier looked out for Puck, showed him the ropes when he was lost or confused: all in all, he acted pretty much like the big brother Puck had never thought he wanted to have. Puck gradually discovered that Olivier was unexpected, unpredictable: he didn't follow any cliché, didn't fit into any known category. He didn't look and act like Puck's definition of cool, and yet Puck ended up wishing he could be more like him.

He was ridiculously tall, taller than Puck. He had hands with long nimble fingers (boy, would Puck learn to worship those; the things Olivier's fingers could do to him), and slim wrists that he adorned with silver bracelets when he wasn't working in the kitchen ̵ and he still pulled that off as manly; hands that could gut a fish as quickly as they could roll a joint, hands that flew around and fluttered expressively when he spoke. But Olivier's hands weren't what Puck had first noted when he met the young man, since Olivier's most striking feature really were his deep blue eyes, with lashes as dark as the mop of shaggy hair that topped his head, eyes so big that they seemed engaged in a territorial war with the black facial hair that covered Olivier's face, and the only thing that seemed to prevent both sides from winning definitely over the other were the high cheekbones that separated them like trenches. Those eyes could have made him look soft and feminine too; but if it was true that eyes were the mirror of the soul, then Olivier's soul must have been as sharp as a razor. Puck could feel that dangerous edge in Olivier, in the young man's intense behavior, the way he laughed louder than everybody else, the way he got into colossal rows with his teachers over stuff that barely mattered. But Puck couldn't get past his admiration for him, because Olivier was a badass, because he was true to himself, Puck thought, because he could tell the whole world to fuck off and still... Olivier had singled Puck out, offered him his friendship, and somehow cared for him.

It was only a matter of time before Puck's admiration turned into something more.  
It happened during summer holidays, when Olivier had invited Puck on a surfing trip in Bastia, Olivier's home town. One night, in the cheap apartment they'd rented together, right after a dinner of fish that they'd grilled on the balcony, Olivier had turned his intense stare on Puck, looking him right in the eye when he said, "So you wanna do this, or what?" with an expression that said Puck had better not start acting dumb.

It didn't take more than a few seconds before Puck made his decision.

Puck used to be homophobic. Bisexuality used to mean "pussying out on full-time gay" for him, and "full-time gay" just wasn't acceptable. He liked pussy. He loved boobs.

And yet he dove directly into sucking Olivier's cock ̵ no petting, no kissing, no questions asked. Looking back, maybe that had been a mistake. But he hadn't wanted hesitant and shy at the time, he'd never been one for compromises.

"That was pretty lousy," Olivier said, huffing a breathy laugh after he'd come on Puck's lips, "so let me show you how it's done, young padawan."

And with that Puck was sent spiraling into the craziest, most destructive relationship he'd ever had. Sexually, Olivier was into pretty weird shit, but he always made Puck come eventually, so the latter didn't find any reason to complain in that regard.

Emotionally, it took Puck a long time to discover that Olivier was wrecking him. Sometimes, what they had together, whatever it could be called, felt great ̵ although never in a lovey-dovey way ̵ sometimes it was pure exhilaration, and as much as that comparison was hackneyed, it did feel like a drug. And then everything frequently descended into pure hell, too ̵ Olivier was a natural-born mindfucker, and when he wanted, with the way he had with words and concepts, he could be the most vicious motherfucker on earth. Puck was put through such a roller-coaster-ride of highs and lows that sometimes he thought he was the one going insane. Then Olivier started missing classes, and on the days he decided to attend, his quarrels with his teachers were gradually getting out of hand. Finally, out of the blue, he told Puck they were through, and he never wanted to see his face again. By the next day, he'd disappeared. He left no trace, no note; it was like he'd vanished into thin air. The police eventually found out that his credit card had been last used in Vietnam, of all places, and then the trail had gone cold. There was no way Puck could know whether Olivier was still alive or dead. At some point Olivier's mother came around to reclaim her son's belongings. She insisted that she and Puck should talk, so they had coffee at a bar in Vieux Lyon. Puck didn't know if she was aware that he and her son had been fucking, so he let her do the talking, which was fine, since she only had one thing to tell him: Olivier was bipolar, and he'd been off his medication when he'd started acting crazy ̵ well, crazier than usual. So whatever he said or did during that time, Olivier's mother said, it wasn't really his fault. It wasn't him. That had barely consoled Puck, but at least then he understood why it had all gone so wrong, so suddenly. The guilt he'd felt was somehow alleviated a little, but not much.

The subject of Olivier still felt like an open wound to this day, and what Puck saw in Aurélien Marlowe made it worse. He was pretty sure Aurélien was bipolar, too, or at least had tendencies, and he couldn't help worrying for Kurt, especially after the show Aurélien had put on earlier. Even though he'd sworn he would keep himself out the couple's way, the situation had definitely changed, or at least Puck's consideration had, since now he was aware of what kind of crazy and dangerous shit Aurélien could pull ̵ but then again, since he'd had no news since then, maybe the bouldering had gone wrong and the mad fucker was dead. That thought led to another, very familiar one, and he pictured Olivier like he had pictured him many times, with a clarity that shocked him after so much time, lying dead, alone, somewhere in Vietnam, in imaginary landscapes borrowed from stock images that Puck had Googled because he'd had no idea what Vietnam was like.

He slowly released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Maybe he should find Kurt, and talk to him.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard a noise coming from the kitchen, and when he walked out of the pantry, he found a red-eyed Kurt staring back at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was standing near the fridge, clutching a chilled bottle of Evian as if Puck wanted to take it away from him.

"Um," Puck began. "Everything all right?"

Kurt's wide-eyed expression turned into a deep frown, then he exploded.

"You know what? No! It's not! Why on earth would you be here? Everywhere I turn, you're there, you're always there! Is there any moment I can have for myself where I can weep on the mess my life has become without you lurking around and seeing me at my weakest? You're doing this to mock me, aren't you? It's all on purpose, right? You act like you care about my well-being, and it's fucking annoying, because deep down I'm sure you're jubilating, 'oh look, the gay guy is crying like a girl, again.' Oh, how it must fit the opinion you've always had of me, stupid fucking pansy-ass wimp of a faggot loser, indeed. For Christ's sake, don't you have anything better to do?" he finished, as he slammed the Evian bottle down on the kitchen counter.

"I, huh, was in the pantry, I just... I needed to take inventory," Puck said, stupidly pointing behind him with his thumb, then holding up the smart phone in his hand as if it helped the justification.

"Oh, God," Kurt rolled his eyes and let himself drop down to the kitchen floor, his back resting against the cupboards. He hid his face in his hands.

"That was crazy talk," he said in a tired voice, partly muffled by his hands. Then he dropped both of them at once at his sides and he rolled his head against the cupboards so it was hanging sideways, making him look like a broken puppet. "Again. I'm sorry."

It suddenly occurred to him, that in all probability Kurt had to be upset about something to do with Aurélien, and a strange feeling knotted his stomach.

"Did... Kurt, did something happen to Aurélien?"

"Oh, I wish!" Kurt ranted. "That would have taught him a lesson, for once! But no such luck: he's back, safe and sound, since the rangers got enough back-up in time, and prevented those idiots from falling to their deaths. The worst part is that they let them go with no harsher punishment than a fine."

How weird was it that Puck felt relieved? He didn't even like the guy.

"So, he's okay?"

"Yes, he's with his friends now, they're having a party, hurray."

"Why aren't you with him?"

"Don't make me say it, it's painfully obvious." And when Puck kept silent, he raved on, "We've had another fight, okay? And I just came here to get some water, because I'm thirsty. End of story."

Puck came to crouch beside him. Kurt didn't look at him, didn't even move. Time to man up, Puckerman, he admonished himself.

"Kurt, look. I know we're not BFFs or anything, but... Okay, this might sound weird, but I think I know what you're going through right now, and maybe I can help. Or, at the very least, I can listen."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Prying bastard," Kurt said, eyes closed, in a flat, weary voice, but he didn't sound pissed. "And how would you know what I'm going through, anyway?"

It was difficult to get the words out, but Puck took a deep breath and soldiered on.

"I... used to date a guy with a manic-depressive disorder too." Funny how the verb "to date" sounded in his mouth to describe that particular relationship, since they'd never used it when he was with Olivier.

"What?" Kurt had finally turned his head to look at Puck, and he was staring at him like he'd grown three heads. "Aurélien doesn't have manic depression, what are you talking about?"

"Maybe you just don't recognize it, but trust me, I think I know the symptoms..."

"Shut up, that's not what's wrong with him. Not that there's anything fundamentally wrong, it's just... It's a small problem, and it will be solved soon. Aurélien is perfect in every aspect, thank you very much. It's just that he... He changes when..." Kurt hesitated, then shut his mouth closed.

"When?" Puck repeated. Kurt glared at him.

"What, now you want to know every dirty secret of mine? It's not enough that you always happen to see me acting like an idiot? I'd rather not talk about it at all, okay, much less with you."

"Listen, Kurt, and I can't believe how girly I'm gonna sound saying this, but will you stop shutting me down? I really want to help. He's not... uh, violent with you, is he?"

"Oh, for God's sake! He doesn't beat me. Why would I marry him if he did? I'm not that weak."

Puck wanted to say it had nothing to do with weakness, and why was Kurt so obsessed about it anyway?

"Then what does he do that puts you in this state?" he asked instead.

"It's not... His friends are a bad influence. It's not him. He promised me he would stop after marriage, anyway, so according to him I'm just fretting over basically..."

"Wait, is he..."

"Yes, my fiancé is doing drugs, Doctor Puckerman. He's not bipolar, at least I hope he's not because that would be the fucking cherry on the top, but as far as I know, he just snorts cocaine. From time to time. Very probably right now, as we speak, too, because that was one of the main points we discussed during our most recent fight, in front of his crackhead friends. Happy now?"

Oh. So that would explain a lot of things, too. Irrepressibly, Puck started chuckling.

"And your reaction is so appropriate as always," Kurt said in the same flat tone as before. "What's so funny, you dickhead?"

Puck only laughed louder at that.

"Nothing, I was just thinking that I'm definitely a better chef than a shrink. Also, you swearing. Don't know why. Cracks me up."

Kurt let out a short giggle, too, more because he was tired than really amused.

"The drug thing's not funny, though," Puck said, sobering a little. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, not as much as I am, trust me."

Puck got up on his feet.

"Hey, you know what? I'm actually supposed to taste some wines tonight. I have Senator Marlowe's permission to dig into his cave and everything. Care to join me?"

"I don't think that drinking alcohol with you while my husband-to-be is inhaling recreational drugs with his morally dubious friends sounds like such a good idea for finding solace. In fact, it sounds rather pathetic."

"Getting shit-faced is not the point. Okay, maybe it is," Puck added when Kurt raised a perfect eyebrow, "but I don't think it'll do us any harm. Just look at us, buddy. We're a fucking mess. We need this."

Kurt looked up at Puck, considering the proposition, then shrugged and accepted Puck's extended hand.

"Bah, what the hell," he sighed as he let Puck pull him up to a standing position.

**Author's Note:**

> (*) Here are the lyrics' translation :
> 
> Barely the time to flutter your eyelashes  
> A breath, a blue sparkle, a moment  
> Nothing gets any better than this  
> Balance is fragile
> 
> I've seen it all, I've learned nothing
> 
> And even though your eyes dissolve the blazing stars  
> Shooting one by one through the space of my head
> 
> I'm still thinking about it  
> I'm thinking about it  
> I'm still thinking about it


End file.
